


why do the yankees always win?

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Con Artists, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8567557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: pitching prompts: Mike Lawson never plays Major League Baseball
He’s gone straight. Mostly straight. It’s not his fault if there are plenty of legitimate businesses that will pay a man with his talents handsomely to separate clients from their hard-earned money.





	1. Chapter 1

It may be time to accept that his life might not actually get better than this. 

After all, Mike Lawson is thirty-six and selling over-priced cars to over-paid Hollywood burnouts. This translates into a respectable paycheck that won't make the federal government blink twice accompanied by an utter lack of any kind of personal fulfillment.

It’s not ideal, that's for sure.

What’s sad, though, is that this is inarguably the high point of his life. 

Which is something of a let down. After all the trouble he went to to make sure his life wasn’t the shit show his mother’s had been, realizing that he might never live the good life sucks. Especially when he sees how far a life of crime got Madoff.

But Mike never had the temperament to be a Madoff. For one thing, he has a functioning conscience. For another, he doesn't have the mind for the big time scheming it takes to strike it rich. So, once he realized that he might never grow out of being the kid who helped his mom con guys into paying to repair a car that ran just fine, or might never move beyond using the stupid dry cleaning bill scam to make rent, he decided to throw in the towel. If he couldn't be one of the greats, why run the risk of a life of petty crime? If he was destined for mediocrity, he might as well do it on the right side of the law. Not that he'd intended to live out his days as a glorified car salesman. That's just where he'd ended up.

Well, at least he can live with the knowledge that he’ll never swindle families out of their life savings. He’ll also never be known as one of the infamously great: Ponzi or Abagnale or Valfierno.

Honestly, it’s the kind of problem for a headshrinker to sort out. 

And a good thing that it’s much easier to ignore his unplumbed psychological issues. 

Anyway, he’s gone straight. Mostly straight. It’s not his fault if there are plenty of legitimate businesses that will pay a man with his talents handsomely to separate clients from their hard-earned money. Since most of those clients end up getting something approximately equal to what they pay out, Mike’s not too fussed. 

It’s only a scam in as much as capitalism as a whole is.

What does he care about the ethical ambiguity of his job? As long as he gets his paycheck, he’s happy. 

As a plus, “Luxury Car Dealer” sounds a lot better than “itinerant con-artist” even when the skill sets have some serious overlap.

So, no. He might never make it to the big time, the American Dream that gets sold to every other sucker in the country. But Mike is pretty sure that no one gets there, at least not by walking the straight and narrow like he is. Things could definitely be worse, though. He likes San Diego. Likes his apartment. Likes his neighbors and casual acquaintances. If he doesn’t have any friends to like, that’s his business. In fact, he likes his life here enough that he doesn’t really want to have to hightail it out of town for a poorly-planned, spur of the moment con. 

No matter how big the payout might be. 

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself as he clocks his next mar—client circling the showroom of the dealership. 

“Well, if it isn’t Ginny Baker in the flesh,” he greets with his customary charming smile. When her eyes cut away from the truly gorgeous Mustang convertible she’d been eyeing and land on him, indifference clear on her face, Mike doesn’t let himself falter. It’s not his fault that she’s the most recognizable woman in San Diego. Hell, in America, probably. And that’s for people who don’t even follow baseball. 

And Mike doesn’t follow baseball. He gave that up when he was a kid, back when he wanted to play first and his d— _coach_ stuck him under a mask instead. It’d been fun for a while, but after he and his mom left town, and then kept leaving towns, it stopped being important. What was the point in playing a game that wouldn’t get him anywhere? Hard to get scouted when his mom could hardly keep him in the same school for more than a semester at a time, anyway.

Although, looking at San Diego’s rookie starter, maybe he wouldn’t mind crouching behind the plate for her.

She’s giving him a once over, too, though Mike’s not sure that her conclusions are anywhere near as flattering. 

“And you are?” she asks, challenge evident in her tone and the tilt of her chin. 

“Mike Lawson,” he responds easily, sticking out his hand to shake. 

It hangs there a beat too long before she slips her strong, brown fingers against his. After all these years, the feeling of a pitcher’s calluses are still familiar. “Ginny Baker.”

He smirks. “Oh, I’m aware.”

When her lips twitch, that awareness of weak spots—the one that kept his mom happy with him as a kid, but he’d been trying to ignore. Straight and narrow, remember?—rears its ugly, little head. Most people, he’s sure, would see the quirk of her lips as a self-deprecating gesture, an acknowledgement of her fame. But to Mike, who’d grown up reading people as a matter of survival, the twist in her mouth is pure, bitter discomfort.

Sensing a sale slipping through his fingers, and that’s the _only_ reason, Mike quickly changes tacks. Gesturing to the convertible beside them, he says, “She’s a real beaut, isn’t she?” Mike circles the sleek, powerful machine as he goes over the specs, a frowning pitcher trailing along behind. It’s probably ridiculous to want to smooth out the wrinkles in her brow, so he ignores the impulse and talks more about the V8 engine and its acoustic performance rather than try and figure out what she wants to hear the way he usually would. “So, how’d you like to take her for a spin?” he finishes with his patented tempting smirk.

“Oh.” Her frown turns from one of concentration to embarrassment. “I can’t. I actually don’t know how to drive.”

That knocks him for a loop. “You don’t know how to drive.”

She shakes her head, looking over the other floor models. Now, her aimless wandering when she first came in makes sense. 

“What the hell are you doing in a car dealership, then?”

Mike wants to wince, but that would just be proof that he let his mouth get away from him, which is one of the first lessons his mother ever taught him. Never let a mark know she’s got you flat-footed. 

Ginny Baker just smiles wryly when she turns her attention back to him. “It’s supposed to be a birthday present? For my agent. She’s, uh. She’s done a lot for me this year.”

That’s putting it mildly. Even as someone who very specifically does not care about America’s pastime, Mike would have to live in a cave not to know about the media storm that’s followed in Ginny Baker’s wake. The old comments from her manager, her wild night in LA, the release of some very risqué photos from her past. The woman was clearly a magnet for trouble. 

Looking at her now, though, in well-worn athletic gear and her hair in its usual game day ponytail, Mike has to wonder if it’s not the woman who’s a trouble magnet, but the position she’s been put in.

So, he nods, and doesn’t comment beyond, “Did you have anything in mind?”

That earns a shrug. “I don’t actually know anything about cars. Never had a reason to.”

Mike nods like that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to say. For a lot of 23-year-old women, it is. It’s not that he’s that into cars himself, despite his job. So, it’s not as if this is some sort of sacrilege he has to deal with. It’s just strange to realize that Ginny Baker is a regular human being with weaknesses and quirks and hidden depths just like anyone else. She's not perfect.

“All right,” he says, trying to find an angle that will result in Ginny Baker buying something that will earn him a nice, fat commission check. If he gets to keep chatting with a pretty girl, then all the better. “Why don’t you tell me about your agent. What kind of car does she drive now?”

“I don’t know. It’s white and sleek. Just like her.”

Mike actually lets out a surprised burst of laughter at that. Ginny Baker’s responding smile is shy but so much better than the fierce grins he’s caught in her post-game interviews. 

(So what if he’s started watching games again? This is about history in the making, not baseball.)

He turns back to the Mustang. “So, what drew you to this one? You were looking her over for a couple minutes before I came by.”

She eyes him sidelong. “Is this you trying to find another reason to laugh at me? I already told you I don’t know anything about cars.”

When he answers, he keeps his tone sober. “No wrong answers, scout’s honor.”

The doubtful look she gives him is probably warranted. He’d never been a Boy Scout, but keeps his face appropriately remorseful. Eventually, she answers, “It’s red.”

That it is. And, for someone who doesn’t care at all about cars or engines or automotive performance, color is obviously going to be one of the few things that makes a model stand out. He's certainly heard stranger reasons for wanting a car. Mike files away this bit of information, as well as her reluctance to share it. It’s what he would do for any customer, especially one as ambivalent as Ginny Baker. The more information, the easier the con.

He should probably stop thinking about his job as a series of short cons. But again, there’s a reason Mike doesn’t have a shrink.

“And you said the car your agent...”

“Amelia,” she supplies as he trailed off.

“Your agent Amelia drives a white car now?” At her nod, he put on his pensive face. “Did you see the red car and immediately think of Amelia?”

“No,” she replies, a little bewildered.

“Well, let’s see if we can find something that speaks to you,” he says and steers her away to another make and model. 

Normally, he's found that when he’s selling to women, they respond better to emotional cues. There are more than a few who want to know all about power and performance, but most are more interested in his own capabilities in those departments. So, Mike knows all about flirting a woman into an acquisitive mood. A few strokes of her ego, a little banter too put her in the right mindset. Then, he’ll have her sit in the front seat with her hands on the wheel and ask how she likes the view or what it makes her feel. 

Nothing about selling to Ginny Baker can be classified as normal. Set aside the fact that she’s not shopping for herself, but the woman is wrapped up even tighter than the fit of her spandex leggings would suggest. Any time he even approaches flirtation, she shifts a little uncomfortably, so he backs off quickly. Wouldn’t want her running for the hills with a commission on the line. That he doesn't even spare a thought to the view she'd present walking away, graceful hips swinging above long, powerful legs, is just pure professionalism.

He has to work for every detail she drops and most of them aren’t even about her. They’re about the agent, which, admittedly, does make Mike’s job a little easier. Still, he’s glad he’s not really trying to cold read her. It seems unlikely that he’d get very far. This woman is an enigma and knows it.

“You know,” he drawls after she’s nixed a third option in a row without explanation, “if you want me to tell you what you want, I do need at least some information.”

“What, you’re admitting you don’t already have the perfect car picked out and you’ve just been waiting for me to get desperate so I won’t argue over the price?” is her response, just as dry. 

Mike’s eyebrows shoot up and he can hardly help the delighted grin that unfurls the corners of his mouth. 

Ginny Baker rolls her eyes. “I might not know anything about cars, but I do know how not to be taken advantage of.”

There’s a story there and Mike desperately would like to know it. Rather than acknowledge that thought, though, Mike leads her over to his ace in the hole. A two-door Jaguar he’d been working his way up to. It’s definitely sleek, but powerful, too. Just enough of a departure from the Benz the agent’s apparently been driving to feel like a trade up, but still familiar. Mike watches as the young woman trails her fingertips along the hood, listening as he rattles off specs he knows mean next-to-nothing to her. Still, she nods seriously at every bit of information. 

When he’s done, she looks up from her serious contemplation of the side mirrors and aims a smile his way. Mike’s breath doesn’t leave his chest, but it’s a close thing. “See,” she says, still smiling, “I knew you had the perfect one all picked out.”

“You’re a clever one, Ms. Baker,” he ends up replying, falling back into his vaguely complimentary costumer service voice. He’s so glad that he hadn’t started thinking about a long con the moment she walked in the doors. After knowing her less than an hour, Mike’s sure there’s no chance he would have gone through with it. He’d have ended up playing himself. And that would have made him just as bad as any of the pigeons his mom worked over throughout his childhood.

“Ginny’s fine,” she replies, wrinkling her nose. 

“If you say so,” he chuckles, leading her over to his desk to hammer out the details. 

In the end, Ginny Baker manages to haggle him down on the price more than he’d usually go. It’s not like it matters. He’s still going to get a ridiculous commission off this sale. If he were trying for the hard sell, there’d be a bit of professional indignation, but Mike has been in the game long enough to know when his head isn’t in it. That Ginny Baker might be the reason for his distraction is ridiculous and can’t be proven. Not satisfactorily anyway. 

If Mike slips a copy of his business card in her purse, not to mention the one he pressed into her hands along with her signed receipts, would anyone really blame him?

“If you ever decide you want one of these beauties for yourself, I hope I’m your first call,” he tells her as they walk to the glass-fronted entrance. 

“Still don’t know how to drive,” she responds, but there’s a little something extra in her smile. 

“I can be your first call for that, too.”

Ginny laughs at his, frankly, genius answer, but it doesn’t bother him the way a pretty girl laughing in his face should. Something strange and warms bursts beneath his lungs and doesn’t fade. Not until she’s disappeared into the back seat of her hired car and been driven away. 

The rest of the day, he feels almost light-hearted. Sure, he’s still basically a con artist selling a lifestyle that needs constant upgrading: at least once a year when the new models come out. 

But, who knows. Maybe things are looking up for Mike Lawson. As long as his card is still in a certain pitcher’s purse, he can live in hope.


	2. Chapter 2

When Ginny walked into the dealership to buy Amelia’s car, she expected to deal with at least one, if not more, pushy salesmen. What she didn’t expect, was to be greeted by a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ. Elegantly scruffy, and wearing a pristine suit, he looked more like another customer than a salesman. Ginny was prepared to eye him appreciatively until someone came over to talk her into a too-expensive chunk of metal and fiberglass. She was less prepared for that someone to be him.

He wasn’t pushy, per se. Clearly, he had an angle and was just biding his time by taking her around to a dizzying array of cars before reeling her in with the perfect option. 

Mike Lawson was slick, but he wasn’t exactly hard to read. 

So, when she finds another copy of his card in her purse, having passed the first along to Amelia along with the keys, Ginny isn’t particularly shocked. Slick. 

Still, it takes her a while to decide what she wants to do with the bit of card stock, so she carries it around for a few days. Nothing weird, just slips it into her backpack in case she decides... something and doesn’t want to chicken out later. 

The thing is, she remembers how he made her smile. How he laughed at her joke, and it came out surprised, not forced. She really remembers just how well he filled out his suit. 

And it would be nice. To be treated like a person and not some trailblazer or icon. Sure, Mike Lawson had definitely seen a fat wallet when he looked at her, but at least he was honest about it. He also happened to see the woman holding that wallet. Yeah, the man hadn’t been as subtle as he thought. But his attention, strangely enough, didn’t make Ginny feel anxious or itchy the way almost everyone else’s does. She liked the way he’d looked at her, wouldn’t mind letting him do it again.

Really, this has nothing to do with the guys telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she needs to get laid. Sure, Stubbs said he was beginning to doubt that she wasn’t a nun, but who gave a shit what Stubbs thinks? Not Ginny. Not even if she’s starting to suspect the guys are right. It has been something of a dry spell. 

Not that she’s really expecting Mike Lawson to fix that. No matter how well the man wore a suit. 

But, he could still teach her to drive. Give her something to focus her pent-up frustrations on.

If he didn’t want to see her again, that would be fine. At least, that’s what she tells herself as she taps out his number on her phone. _It’ll be fine_ , she reaffirms. Ginny waits so long that her screen locks itself before she can build up the nerve. 

Disgusted with herself, she unlocks the phone and hits dial. 

 _Get a grip, Baker_ , she tells herself.  

Unfortunately, she hadn’t told herself anything else. Like what to actually say when he answers.

“Hello?” comes Mike Lawson’s voice, gruff and a little suspicious. To be fair, it is 9:30 on Friday night. He probably didn’t expect to have to answer a call from his business line right now. 

“Uh, hi,” Ginny stutters. “This is, um. Sorry. This is Ginny Baker? You sold me a car a few weeks ago?”

God, why are all her sentences coming out as questions?

There’s a beat of silence and then, “Ah, Ginny,” he says, all familiar warmth. It runs straight in her ear and pools somewhere in her gut. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Even though no one’s around to see it, Ginny does her best to tamp down on her smile. “I found your card,” she tells him.

“I wasn’t exactly hiding it. There’s a slot in the paperwork folder for it and everything,” he returns, easy as anything.

“Not that one. The one you slipped in my purse when I wasn’t looking. Very smooth.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he insists and Ginny hopes she’s not imagining the flirtatious current, “but I’ll accept a compliment from a beautiful woman any time.”

She laughs outright, bright and a little too loud. It’s been known to earn her glares and even thrown pillows when it makes an appearance on the team plane. Mike, though, just chuckles along with her. 

“Okay,” she drawls, not quite believing the flattery but enjoying it anyway.

“So,” he practically purrs and Ginny’s toes adamantly do _not_  curl. God, the guys are definitely right. She needs some. “What can I do for you? Unless you just called to hear my voice.”

He’s not entirely wrong, but Ginny can only imagine what he’d be like if she admitted that. Instead, she says, “I was actually wondering if you were serious.”

“Very rarely,” he returns, quick as anything. He does seem to reassess, though, and continues, “About what in particular?”

“Teaching me to drive?” Ginny chews on her lip. This wasn’t a big deal. She could ask anyone, but he’d offered. “It’s just, I’m getting so much shit in the clubhouse and if I cave and ask any of them, it will never end. And I love Amelia, but the woman is a terrifying driver. Like, she doesn’t realize that her tiny car is not going to win in any kind of crash scenario, but—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he interjects, cutting off Ginny’s nervous ramble before it picked up too much steam. “Of course I can teach you. I offered, didn’t I?”

Ginny’s shoulders sag in relief. “Oh. Good. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Mike replies, actually sounding genuine. Like they’re already friends and this is just a normal thing that people do. Maybe it is and Ginny’s just been living in a Ginnsanity-tinged world for too long. “So, how about I pick you up tomorrow and we’ll get started?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, no time like the present, right?”

“Right,” Ginny agrees, still a little giddy and uncertain. “I have a day game tomorrow, but I should be done by six? You can pick me up at the park if you want. I’ll text you the door number.”

The line is quiet for a bit, but he finally says, “It’s a date.”

She manages to say goodbye and hang up without making too big of a fool of herself, but when she does, she collapses onto her bed. She doesn’t even bother trying to tamp down the grin threatening to split her face in two. Why would she?

She has a date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a shorty to prove that I haven't forgotten about this. Also, just in time for bawsonweek's fan work weekend! 
> 
> let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

When Mike took calls on his work line after business hours, he could typically expect conversations to go one of two ways.

One: It was a former client who wanted to become a current client and add another status symbol to his garage, regardless of the time. 

Mike would say "his garage" just because 98% of these calls came from men. Not to say women weren't capable of being pushy, entitled jerks, it just manifested in different ways. 

Which led to—

Two: It was former client (or client's wife, girlfriend, partner) who wanted to become a current friend. With benefits. Which. Who was Mike to turn down a willing bedfellow? Even if it made him feel skeevy to get in the middle of a relationship. Especially when some of those women felt the need to shower him with gifts. Never money, but the intent was the same.

He comforted himself that at least these women knew what they were getting into with him: just sex, no strings attached. A transaction. Mostly these women wanted a little thrill and he was happy to give it to them.

Mostly happy. 

So, when he took that call at 9:30 on a Friday night, there was already a framework in place to manage his expectations. Not that his expectations would have matched up to the actual conversation that took place. 

After all, there's nothing _expected_ about Ginny Baker. 

From the moment they met, she's had him all wrong-footed. She's something of a challenge and he likes her for it. Likes that she might see him as more than just a car salesman with a sketchy past. 

But that's all possibility. Future potentials that Mike typically doesn't deal in, not when it doesn't stand to benefit him materially.

And while Ginny Baker might definitely benefit him, he's not thinking about anything other than personal fulfillment because he's become a total sap over this girl he's talked to twice. He knows it. He's embraced it. 

Unfortunately, embracing it doesn't make it any easier to get ready for their date. 

There's something that feels so high school about it. He's picking her up from her baseball game, for God's sake. Maybe he'll convince her to wear his letter jacket. 

_Jesus._

Mike's self-aware enough to acknowledge that it probably has something to do with the fact that she's actually been in high school recently. As a student. 

God, she makes him feel old. 

Not old enough to bail on her, though. 

Because in spite of it all—her youth, her fame, his past—Mike really likes Ginny. She's sweet and funny and down-to-earth in a way that people always say celebrities are that rarely turns out to be true. On her, though, it seemed utterly sincere, like she wouldn't even have thought to act any different from the way she usually is. At least not for someone who isn't a pint-sized fan.

In fact, Mike likes Ginny enough to feel nervous, and Mike hasn't been nervous around women since he realized at sixteen that he was handsome enough to skate by on charm and his good looks.

It's irrational. He knows better than to give into something as fickle as his heart. Spend your whole life learning to con and grift people out of their money and you learn to rely on wits and gut instinct. Follow your heart and it'll lead straight to an early grave, his mom always used to say.

But, here he is, staring into his closet and trying to decide what to fucking wear on this date with the most famous woman in America. 

It's not until he realizes that he'll be unforgivably late if he doesn't make up his goddamn mind that he throws on an old flannel over his dark t-shirt and jeans. It seems too casual for a date, but he's literally going to be teaching her how to drive. It doesn't get much more casual than that. As a plus, the flannel  _looks_ as soft as it feels. If it encourages Ginny to find out for herself, though, Mike won't argue.

He's mostly gotten over his nerves when he pulls up to the players' entrance at Petco Park. Judging by the lack of any pedestrians wandering, Mike figures the game is well over. Before he can send her a message, a notification pops up on his phone.  

> **Ginny Baker**
> 
> 6:03 PM
> 
> _Hey! On my way out.  
>  _ _Sorry for keeping you  
>  _ _waiting :p_

Irrationally, Mike smiles at his phone's screen. How is it cute that she doesn't use emojis and spells everything out? Her first message to him, the one she'd promised with the door number, had been the same. She'd even signed it at the end. As if someone else might be texting him about door numbers. 

He cuts the engine and climbs out of the car. Not just because he might crawl out of his skin waiting if he doesn't move. He wants to open her car door, too. Like a gentleman. 

And, God. _There's_ a joke. 

Mike leans up against the SUV he's borrowed—no way he's making Ginny try to drive the shitty Camry he actually owns—and waits, trying not to give into a pity parade. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to wait long. A set of double doors swing open and out comes Ginny Baker, trailing a veritable  _entourage_. 

On one side, there's a smiling, rangy black man nudging her in the side and waggling his eyebrows. And. Not that Mike  _cares_ about baseball, but he's pretty sure that's Blip Sanders teasing Ginny like she's his little sister. She rolls her eyes at him and busts out laughing when the woman on Blip's other side thumps him in the chest with the back of her hand. Judging by the two kids walking in front of them, Mike would bet the other woman is the center fielder's wife. 

On Ginny's other side and looking less familial is an Asian man typing away intently on a phone and a stern looking blonde. 

A stern looking blonde who's zeroed in on Mike and does not look pleased. 

They're close enough that Mike can hear what they're saying, now. 

"It's fine, Amelia," Ginny's saying and the blonde's lips purse. Ah. So that's Amelia. "I need to learn and he offered."

"I still think he should sign an NDA."

Ginny rolls her eyes and Mike can tell they've gone ten rounds on this already. If he were Ginny, though, he'd definitely make him sign an NDA. Not that he has any plans to exploit this situation for financial gain, but Mike knows better than most that there are some real assholes in the world. Better safe than sorry.

Then, Ginny makes eye contact with him and her smile throws all thoughts of assholes and, honestly, anything that isn't directly related to making her smile at him again out the window. 

"Hey," she greets, none of the nervous uncertainty of their phone call apparent in her tone or body language. Ginny walks tall, confident and with a sway in her steps that Mike's used to seeing in the male athletes that come through the dealership's doors. It works for her, especially decked out in high performance lycra and top of the line sneakers like she is. "You're not going to sell some story about me to the tabloids are you?"

How she can be so confident that he's not going to screw her over is a mystery. There's no doubt in her voice, just a little mischief in her gaze. 

More importantly, how is he so desperate to earn that unthinking trust?

"Nah," he returns. "That's a third date activity. I'll even let you help me come up with the story."

Mike can tell the joke doesn't fly with the agent, but Ginny grins wide and bright. 

It feels almost like a punch to the chest, she's so beautiful.

He earns a laugh from Blip Sanders, too, which isn't even that surreal compared to what's already happening. 

"You know what I think, Ginny," the outfielder says, which somehow earns another thump from his wife.

Mike raises his eyebrows at Ginny, and is she—?

Yeah, she's definitely blushing. 

She covers it by nodding at the car. "We doing this or what?"

"Don't sound so excited," Mike teases, opening the door and watching her boost herself up. Once she's settled, he closes her in and turns to round the front of the car. Turns straight into Ginny Baker's entourage. 

None of them say anything, mostly just assessing him in silence. The men of the entourage seem more entertained than anything, but Amelia and Blip's wife both give him a warning look with enough heat to curdle milk. Because it seems like Amelia's about a second away from threatening him with every unpleasantness she can imagine, Mike tips a dry little salute to them all and hurries to the driver's side.

Before anyone can decide that, no, Ginny Baker driving off with a stranger  _isn't_ a good idea, he pulls away from the curb and into the setting San Diego sun. 

 

* * *

 

"How did I think this was a good idea?"

They'd both said it over the course of the evening, but right now it's Ginny, hunched over the wheel as she inches the big SUV forward. 

Mike personally thinks she can afford to go a little faster, considering they're in an empty parking lot without even light posts to run into, but this is an improvement. She'd started the lesson accidentally zooming backwards and had been rightfully freaked out ever since. 

"I think you said something about 'never hearing the end of it' if you asked someone else," he replies. Light and easy. It's enough to make her shoulders drop away from her ears. Not all the way, but a little. Well, he can work with that. "I have to imagine that their jokes are terrible. Your teammates can't be professional athletes  _and_  in possession of actual senses of humor. Although, a sense of humor might be the only way to deal with the Padres record this season."

"Hey!" she protests with a disbelieving laugh. "I'd like to see you do better."

Mike grins and settles back in his seat as Ginny begins a ponderous turn. "Of course I could do better. I happen to have an excellent sense of humor. I'd be one of those rare athletes with talents on and off the field."

Ginny hums in thought. "Did you ever want to be an athlete? Go pro?"

He thinks. Is it weird to say he played baseball as a kid? To the most famous baseball player in the world? Probably.

"Nope. I hear there's a lot of exercise involved in professional sports," he jokes.

"Yeah, you really seem to hate exercise." Her eyes stay firmly on the flat expanse of asphalt, but Mike's gotten enough of a read on her that he can tell she wants to look him up and down. The knowledge warms something in the pit of his stomach. Ginny Baker wants to check him out. 

He'll definitely have to give her an opportunity later. 

"It's the worst," is his cheerful reply.

"Sure it is, old man."

"Old man?" Mike clutches at his chest as if mortally wounded. "What? Should I be calling you whippersnapper or something? Or just rookie?"

Ginny's laugh is bright and carefree. "Is it wrong that I just assumed you're older than me? Like, I don't imagine a lot of 23 year-olds selling luxury cars."

Mike huffs, "You're not wrong," and leaves it at that.

Ginny is less willing. "So?" she prompts. Mike raises an eyebrow and her peripheral vision must be excellent because she continues, "How old are you?" 

He remains stubbornly silent, trying not to grin at her wheedling. Eventually, she stops the car, manages to put it in park and turns in the driver's seat towards him. The look on her face is so wide-eyed and pleading that Mike caves immediately. 

"Thirty-six," he admits. 

Ginny's head tilts, but she doesn't rock back or shift away from him. If anything, she leans in a little closer, a sly look stealing across her face. 

"So, I was right," she teases. "You  _are_ old."

He raises an eyebrow. "I'd watch who you're calling old, rookie." The nickname rolls off his tongue, but it feels so right. Mike shrugs it off. "Because this old guy is currently keeping you from the endless teasing of your team."

"No, no. It's," she bites her lip and Mike would swear her eyes go a little dark, "not a complaint."

Mike licks his lips and Ginny's eyes trace the action. The temperature in the car shoots up. "It's not?"

Ginny shakes her head. 

"What is it, then?"

Her answer is to lean across the center console, cup his jaw in her hand, and press her lips against his. 

It's a hard angle and Mike isn't used to being on the receiving end of a kiss, but he's also not used to actual fucking butterflies lighting up the inside of his chest. He brings up a hand to thread through her hair, tilting her to a better angle. She sighs, lips parting and Mike presses forward. He licks into her mouth and of course she can't let him take the lead. Ginny presses back, more intent than finesse. It makes Mike smile. And laugh when she tries to crawl across the console and into his lap. 

"What're you doing?" he smiles into her lips, free hand coming up to rest against her ribcage. 

Ginny jerks back, though. "Oh, God! I'm sorry!" She tries to disentangle herself from him. "Did you not—"

"Hey, hey," Mike gentles, leaning in to press his forehead against hers, noses brushing. "It isn't a complaint."

Her eyes flick to his and her voice is distressingly unsure. "It's not?"

"No," he confirms. "I don't know if you forgot, but someone recently reminded me that I'm old." They're so close he can feel the apples of her cheeks plump up as she smiles. 

"That's true."

"And while I am not against whatever it was you were about to do, I do think there are better places to do them."

Ginny pulls back and Mike has to tell himself not to follow. "You don't even know what I was going to do."

"I had a pretty good idea," he returns, dry. "And even if I didn't, the fact that you were the one doing it was a huge mark in its favor."

She settles back into the driver's seat, nodding and chewing contemplatively on her lip. 

"Okay."

"Yeah?" he checks. 

"Yeah." Ginny turns and looks him straight in the eye. "So, that better place. Is it yours or mine?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be smutty, but I ran out of time :( Know that it's coming (pun intended?) though.
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Ginny keep getting to know each other.

Somehow, by some act of providence or luck or the fact that one of the Kardashians is in town, Ginny and Mike manage to make it into the Omni without running into any of the fine members of the press corps. 

Which is great. Because if she’d noticed a paparazzi, she would have had to untangle herself from Mike, and Ginny has no intention of that happening in the near future. His hand rests low on her back and she’s wedged firmly against his side. Every part of her that touches him buzzes with electric awareness. Awareness and anticipation.

Ginny knows exactly what she’s doing when she leads Mike over to the bank of elevators off the lobby. She knows what she’s doing when she remains pressed against her side all the way up to her floor. She knows what she’s doing when they make the short walk to her door. She even knows what she’s doing when she stops just inside her room with her back to the wall and smiles up at him. 

(She knows that Blip’s right—she needs to get some—and Mike Lawson is the most tantalizing prospect she’s met in a while. A long while.

More than that, though, Ginny knows that she _likes_ Mike. Likes that he’s too smooth for his own good and even that she knows next to nothing about him. How he’d managed to deflect so many of her questions so gracefully, she didn’t know, but that doesn’t matter because she’s not going to stop asking.)

Her smile is mirrored on Mike’s face as he steps into her space and sandwiches her between the wall and his broad chest. 

And being pressed up against that chest? Ginny knows Mike’s professed disdain of exercise is bullshit. There’s no way the man doesn’t work out, not when he’s so solid and firm against her. 

But then, Mike’s kissing her again and it doesn’t really matter what Ginny does or doesn’t know. 

Aside from the fact that she wants him, of course.  

As her hand slides against his neck and his find her waist, that want flares dangerously close to need. She’s never felt like this before, never burned to have someone near her.

It’s just Mike. 

So, when he pulls away, just a fraction of an inch, she tries to follow. But she catches sight of him and sees that need echoed in his eyes.  

Taking him by the hand, she leads him to her bed and stops thinking about things quite so much. 

Later, when the sky is still dark but they haven’t fallen asleep, Ginny traces abstract patterns across Mike’s bare chest. His arm lays snug around her waist and every time she’s so much as twitched away, that arm has tightened its grip. Yet she’s the one who was teased for being a cuddler.

“Why do I have to be so goddamn irresistible?” he’d chuckled hoarsely when Ginny slid back into bed covered only in Mike’s sinfully soft flannel and fitted herself at his side. She rolled her eyes but didn’t dispute it. Having spent the last few hours under, over, and wrapped up in Mike Lawson, Ginny could admit that the man had a point. 

“Tell me something about yourself,” Ginny murmurs into the dark. 

There’s a rustle, like he’s shifting to peer at the top of her head. His chest expands, taking her hand with it, and falls in one long exhale. Ginny tilts her head back and even through the shadows, looks straight into his eyes. 

“What do you want to know?” he finally asks, a little gruffer than Ginny was expecting.

“Anything,” comes out of her mouth faster than she’d like, but it’s the truth. She wants to know anything about this man who’d made her come apart again and again and still promised more. Anything that he’ll give her.

His hand splays wide on her hip and the pressure begins to kindle flames low in Ginny’s stomach again. She ignores it and rolls a bit so she can prop her chin on Mike’s chest and stare him down until he gives her an answer. His hand slides to the small of her back as she moves, and the kindling smolders anyway.

Mike chuckles a bit at her imperious gaze and gives in. “I had a dog named Jedi.”

“As a kid?”

“No,” he laughs again. “Always wanted one as a kid, though. So once I was on my own, I got one and named him what I’d always wanted to.”

Ginny hums and smiles. “I always wanted a dog, too.”

“Yeah?” he prompts when she falls quiet, fingers tapping rhythmically on her back. 

“Yeah. But by the time I was old enough to take care of one, I was playing ball year round, on three different teams. My pop said I didn’t have to time to look after a dog, not when I had to practice so much.”

“That why you never learned to drive? Too much time practicing?” 

Ginny’s jaw works for a moment and Mike’s hand smooths up her spine. 

“Partly,” she admits. Maybe if it weren’t after midnight and the only light in the room wasn’t filtered through gauzy curtains, Ginny wouldn’t be saying this. Maybe she wouldn’t say it if she weren’t wrapped up in his arms and his shirt. But there are things that are easier to say in the dark. “My dad drove me everywhere all through high school. His way of making sure I was going to practice. It would’ve been hard for him to give up that control.”

Ginny’s not sure what she wants him to say to that. She doesn’t want to hear criticism of her father, even if she knows he maybe deserves it. She doesn’t want to hear the pity that always surfaces when people realize they’ve gotten too close to dead dad territory.

Maybe Mike understands because he says, “Well, you’re learning, now.”

“And if all my lessons end like this, I might just keep on learning,” she grins, hitching a leg over his and rolling her hips. Enough talking. It’s not so late and Ginny doesn’t have anywhere to be until the afternoon. 

If Mike’s growl is any hint, Ginny’s pretty sure he has no objections.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the summer, Mike continues to give her driving lessons. Starting out once week or two, and quickly becoming more frequent, they fall into an easy rhythm dictated by Ginny’s travel schedule and Mike’s shifts at the dealership. She’ll probably never race stock cars or anything, but she’ll do well enough to pass the DMV’s exam. With enough practice and tutoring.

The lessons don’t all end the way that first one did, but plenty of them do. Just as many end with her on his couch, balancing take out containers on her knees, watching reruns of Parks and Rec, and reveling in the utter normalcy of it all. 

For once, Ginny feels like a regular girl her age, even if most girls her age probably aren’t befriending their local, smooth-talking luxury car salesman. 

Mike had initially been reluctant to let her come over to his place, saying the Omni was much nicer and offered room service to boot. Ginny’d had the momentary fear that he was married with kids and trying to keep her or them a secret. He didn’t have a ring tan the way so many cheating men did, but that didn’t mean a lot.

Thankfully, he set her straight pretty quickly. 

“It’s just a shitty apartment, Baker,” he’d explained sheepishly as he let her in the first time. He dropped his keys in a dish by the door and scrubbed at the back of his neck as he eyed his apartment critically. “Don’t you hang out with millionaires on a regular basis? This cannot be that exciting.”

Ginny took in the loft silently. A definite bachelor pad, all concrete and glass minimalism. Certainly not what Ginny would call a shitty apartment, not when she thinks about the places she lived in back in Texas. More importantly, no place to hide a wife or kids. Self-consciousness she could deal with. Infidelity’s a different story. 

Nodding, she turned back to Mike, who was watching her intently. 

“Just because I play with a bunch of guys who make more in a season than I’ve ever seen in my life, doesn’t mean that’s what I’m used to or even want.”

His mouth quirked up and his gaze turned a little heated. It didn’t _not_ turn her insides to jelly. “And what do you want, rookie?”

In spite of the fact that Ginny’d never said a word about Mike’s pet name for her, she knew that he realized what it did to her. Made her knees weak and mouth water in a way that would be a problem if the name inspired the same reaction out of anyone else’s mouth. It didn’t. It was just Mike. 

That was getting to be a theme in her life. 

“Right now,” she said, rather than risk coming on too strong, “I want you to show me the stash of video games I know you’re hiding. It’s been way too long since I played with anyone over the age of seven.”

In spite of Mike’s disappointing collection of video games, Ginny finds herself spending most of her free time with him. 

Much as she loves Blip and Evelyn and the boys, they’re a family. And Ginny might be the fun aunt, but there’s only so much time that she can spend with them before feeling like a fifth wheel. Will’s back in North Carolina and Cara can’t keep walking out on jobs all the time. And most of the Padres are still a little leery of her. Nothing like they’d been at the beginning, but not quite welcoming, either. Mike’s a good alternative. 

The fact that he feels less and less like a backup plan is something Ginny carefully doesn’t think about. The fact that she _wants_  to spend all her time with him, even when they’re not having sex, is even more off limits.

Because they’re not dating.

Not only does Ginny not have time for dating or an actual boyfriend, Mike has not once asked her on anything that could be considered a real date. And Mike is old enough that Ginny figures he buys into the whole, old school dating scene. Flowers and dinner and movies at real movie theaters. Not just Ken Burns marathons on his couch because he’d been scandalized that she’d never seen the baseball documentary.

He’s her friend. Who’s teaching her how to drive and sleeps with her on a regular basis. 

He’s not a booty call or a fuck buddy since most of the time when they end up in bed, it’s because they’ve spent the day together and the casual touches and intimacy builds up until it just makes sense to get naked together. Like it’s just some inevitability.

Ginny really doesn’t want to question it. She likes what she has with Mike too much to risk losing it all. It’s nice to have someone to lean on. Someone that she doesn’t pay (outside of the commission he must have earned on Amelia’s car) and who mostly doesn’t seem to care about baseball. Someone who’s got his own life but makes time for her because he _likes her too_ , not because he wants something from her.

He understands her schedule and doesn’t ask her for anything that she’s not more than willing to give. Even with all the pressure of her rookie season and the deal with Nike, this not-quite relationship is her only source of relief. Her one time to unwind and preempt any freak outs like the one at her signing party. 

If forced to name it, she’d call them friends with benefits. Emphasis on the friends. But the benefits...

They are _excellent_. 

But having a friend who’s just hers? Who’s as eager for a real connection as she is? It’s almost better. 

Mike tells her about how he moved around a lot as a kid, his mom following dead end job prospects and his dad making only the briefest of appearances. She tells him about sneaking out of the house to get her ears pierced. He starts picking up video games that Ginny never got a chance to try as a kid and she’ll bring over movies she remembers the girls in her classes talking about. It’s easy and light and fun and everything that her rookie season isn’t.

Is it any wonder that she starts spending almost all her free time with him?

Amelia hates it. Well, she _worries_ , which is basically the same thing for her.

“I’m just looking out for you, G,” she always says before trying to talk Ginny out of her new friendship. Currently, she’s opposed to Ginny’s latest driving lesson. 

Mike’s finally agreed to set her loose on actual streets, convinced that she won’t prove too big a menace to public safety. It’s been weeks since that first driving lesson and Ginny hasn’t once accidentally put the car in reverse. Probably a good thing to learn that lesson early. 

“I know, Amelia,” Ginny replies, working up a reassuring smile for her agent. “But I want to learn and Mike wants to teach me. Besides, nothing’s been leaked to the press so far, so I think we’re probably safe on that front.”

Amelia just frowns. Ginny wants to roll her eyes, but checks the urge. She can tell her agent that Mike wouldn’t do that until she’s blue in the face and it won’t matter. Amelia trusts the concrete. Luckily, the concrete proves that Mike hasn’t sold her out. 

So, Amelia really doesn’t have much room to protest. 

Which is why Ginny gets to drive off with Mike for another lesson and not worry about Amelia’s reservations. 

She’s easing the big SUV down a quiet street, soft, indistinct chatter from the radio filling the car, when Mike snorts. Because she doesn’t think she’s done anything to earn that kind of reaction, Ginny chances a glance at him and he’s shaking his head. 

“What?” she demands, returning her attention to the road. 

From the corner of her eye, she sees him wave vaguely at the radio. “They’re talking about how fast Duarte’s gonna get called up. Apparently, he’s tearing up AAA.”

Ginny’s heard. The clubhouse has been abuzz with speculation about the Cuban sensation since Oscar signed him over the All Star Break. She hadn’t realized that Mike was paying attention, though. And given the disdain in his voice, Mike’s definitely been paying attention.

“Tell me what you really think,” she teases as she hunches over the steering wheel to peer out into the intersection before making her turn. Ginny doesn’t need to look at Mike to know that he’s grinning at her over-cautious driving. The first time she smacked her forehead against the windshield, he’d burst into gales of laughter and Ginny pouted for the rest of her lesson. Of course, Mike made up for the indignity afterwards as Ginny sprawled on the deep, plushy couch in his apartment. The memory of his reckless grin before it disappeared in the juncture of her thighs still makes Ginny feel warm all over. She can hardly sit on that couch without needing to rub her thighs together.

“What’s it matter what I think?” he asks, flicking the radio off. 

“I wanna know,” she responds, easy as that.

Mike swallows and considers. Ginny keeps her eyes on the road. Mike hasn’t really had anything to say about baseball, though she knows he keeps somewhat up to date. He always knows when she’s had a bad game, at least. She’s interested to find out what unplumbed depths he’s been hiding. “Kid knows how to play. Seems like a dick though.”

She nods, though a wry smile twists up in her mouth. “Pretty spot on, from what I’ve heard, old man.”

“Don’t let him hog the spotlight,” he warns. “He’s talented, but you’re the real deal.”

Ginny pulls up to a stop sign and turns to face Mike. He stares stubbornly forward, so Ginny makes sure to sing song, “I’m the real deal, huh?” as well as delighted grin. 

Underneath his scruff, Mike flushes a dull red and Ginny thrills. It’s not often that she gets under his skin. That definitely seems to be more of his specialty. He gives her a sidelong look and rolls his eyes at the glee he must find. He turns in his seat to face her head on, takes a deep breath, and says, “Yeah, rookie. I’ve never met someone like you. Someone who’s taken on what you have to and still comes out on top. You blow me away.”

She stares. Stares and stares as her heart thumps noisily in her chest. Mike shifts uncertainly and Ginny tears her gaze away. She fumbles the car into park, whirls back on Mike, and exclaims, “How do you expect me to drive after that?”

His uncertainty morphs into smug delight. “What’re you saying, Gin? Is it gonna be too hard to keep your hands off me? That all it takes to get in your pants, a few nice words?”

She thumps him in the shoulder and rolls her eyes but doesn’t dispute it. At least, that’s all it takes for _Mike_  to get in her pants.

Mike takes the hint and gets out of the car so he can drive them back home. 

Watching him navigate the side streets, profile gilded by the setting sun, Ginny thinks that she could get used to this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know I said that there would be smut, but then it would have been a really short chapter and I'd left this to sit too long as it was, so I made an executive decision. Potentially, when I wrap this up, I'll post an outtake of the smut, but I'd like to focus on the plot for now. Cool? Cool.
> 
> That said, this thing finally has a plot, not that you'd be able to tell. It only took 4 chapters for me to figure it out, but it's on the way! Any guesses? Or just thoughts in general? I'd love to hear them! Here or on [tumblr](http://megaphonemonday.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone who hasn't forgotten about this! I'm _very_ sorry for the long wait. I would love to say that I had a good reason, but I mostly did not, so here is a long(er) update for you all!

Because Mike, unlike certain 23-year-olds who enjoy raiding his fridge when he isn’t looking, works a normal job with regular hours, he won’t get to see Ginny’s final game of the season. Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear about it. At length. 

While he can respect her desire to stay in the mix with a playoff run on the line, Mike silently sides with Analytics. He doesn’t like the idea of her exhausting herself and risking injury just because she's too stubborn to call it quits. She’s too annoyed to listen to caution, though, so he’ll save his “At least this way you’ll definitely get a next season,” for when the sting is a little less immediate. Still, he gamely listens to Ginny’s every complaint, more than willing to trash talk management with her, and, when that gets old, distract her from her frustrations with a little non-baseball activity. 

(He knows that’s not the only thing stressing her out, but Ginny’s more willing to complain about it than her brother or agent. When she wants to talk about them, he’ll listen, but he really doesn’t want to push and send her running.)

As much moral support as he can give in the hours leading up to the game, though, he can’t do much the day of aside from send her out of his apartment with an affectionate swat to her ass. 

She turns back on him, mouth dropping open in delighted shock. Mike tries to keep his smirk steady as she marches back up to him, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye that he’s learned to thrill in and be wary of in equal measure. 

Ginny plasters her lean, strong body up against Mike, winding her arms around his neck, and the last thing he sees is that glint before she lays a scorching kiss on him. Her tongue pushes past his lips in a show of dominance that really, really works for him. His eyes slip shut as he loses himself in Ginny, not even caring that they’re probably giving his neighbors something of a show. Who cares? They haven't caught on yet that a bona fide celebrity has been spending a sweet chunk of her off days—to mention nothing of her nights—in their humble apartment complex. The fact that Ginny seems to prefer his sparsely decorated loft, which is more exposed brick and steel girders than anything, when she has a luxe suite at the Omni is a little boggling, but Mike's not going to argue with her. 

Not when he could be doing far, far more interesting things with her.

She eventually pulls away in a rolling motion, making sure to press every one of her curves into him as she goes.

When Mike opens his eyes after a long beat, it’s Ginny who’s smirking. 

"Have a good day at work, old man,” she teases, practically strutting away. 

Mike just shakes his head and tells her to kick some Dodger ass today.

He goes back inside and tries not to get lost in giddy thoughts about how goodbye kisses are apparently something he and Ginny do now. He doesn't do a particularly great job.

To be fair, if Mike were in charge, they’d probably be disgustingly domestic by now. At least officially. He aches to move beyond this undefined... _thing_ that's currently between them, and, in function, he kind of thinks they have. They’ve already got the pet names down, the easy, petty teasing that's borne of familiarity, and the hours spent cuddling on the couch not even trying to get into one another's pants. If that's not domestic, hell if he knows what is. 

However, Mike is not in charge.

Famous as she is, self-possessed and serious as she is, Ginny’s still just a 23-year-old finding her way in the world, while Mike has probably seen far too much of it. Far too much of the bad parts at that. He’s got her beat in age and experience, and even if he wants everything she wants to give him—oh, and, God, does he—there’s not a chance in hell that he’s going to pressure her into giving it. 

She’s the boss. She calls the shots.

Which, he’s aware, makes him all kinds of whipped.

Whipped or not, he doesn’t get a chance to check in on the game once his shift has started. He’s certainly thinking about it and her, but his phone is locked in the top drawer of his desk, and, somehow, there isn’t a single minute to spare. 

Why everyone in San Diego has decided that today is the day to buy a new sports car, Mike has no clue, but he’s not about to look a gift horse—or gift commission check—in the mouth. 

It’s not until late in the afternoon that one of his customers, a guy that Mike’s seen browsing before and doesn’t have high hopes for, brings it up.

“You hear about what’s happening down at Petco?”

Mike just barely manages to suppress an eye roll. What else ever happens at Petco? Baseball. “Game against the Dodgers today, right?” he says instead, smiling pleasantly.

The guy looks lost for a moment before his expression goes a little smug, like he’s pleased to be in the know. “Well, yeah. That and apparently Baker’s having the game of her life today. She’s through seven.”

It takes Mike a beat longer than he’d like to understand what the man is saying. 

The game of her life? Through seven?

Holy shit. She’s doing it. 

Mike hardly even lets himself think the words as he disengages from the smug, serial browser and retreats to his desk to turn on the ESPN app notifications and slip his phone into his pocket. 

Even though his phone’s not supposed to be on, let alone on his person, there’s no way Mike’s going to keep missing out on updates now that he knows what's happening. 

He’s already kicking himself for not being at the Park in person to support Ginny. That’s his—well, not girlfriend. Not yet, at least. But she’s definitely his friend. His best friend even. 

(Which is utterly ridiculous. How is his best friend the most famous woman in America?)

Each time his phone buzzes and he gets that little blurb that she’s put away another batter, he thrills for her, no doubt in his mind that she's going to come in clutch. Already, he’s planning the victory celebration he’s going to throw once her teammates have had their chance. That his will include far less clothing and far fewer people is a given, but he thinks Ginny will appreciate it anyway. Hell, she might even like it more.

So, when his phone buzzes one last time, and he pulls it out of his pocket, there’s no reason for him to anticipate what he sees.

Which is maybe why he freezes in the middle of the sales floor, staring at this brick of glass and circuitry as his brain struggles to process the information it’s taken in. 

**BREAKING: GINNY BAKER ESCORTED OFF FIELD FOLLOWING COLLAPSE.**

Mike stares and stares and then, stares some more.

Dimly, he’s aware that he’s attracting attention. From his coworkers, from potential buyers. Any minute, his manager is going to come over and tell him to put away the phone and get back to work. 

Like there’s any chance of that happening now. 

He’s not even aware of walking out of the dealership. He’s not aware of getting into his car and driving God only knows where. 

All Mike knows is that Ginny’s hurt and possibly scared, and he’s not with her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow, Mike dredges up knowledge of San Diego he hadn’t even known he possessed. He drives straight to the correct hospital, dimly remembering a nurse he’d hooked up with once had said all the pro teams in the city had contracts there.

Judging by the number of news vans and reporters setting up camp in the parking lot, he’d recalled correctly. 

It isn’t until he's standing in the emergency room lobby, though, that reality catches up to him.

There is no way they are going to let some random man in to see San Diego’s Sweetheart. San Diego’s Potentially Very Injured Sweetheart.

The thought alone nearly sends him spiraling. 

Before he can give into the panic though, start formulating a plan to storm the doors and go until security takes him out or he makes it to Ginny, a sharp tap catches him on the shoulder. 

He whirls and comes face to face with—

Air. 

A pointed cough directs his attention down to the tiny, fierce woman standing before him. 

She eyes him critically and gives voice to his own initial thought before he has the chance: “I know you.”

Mike’s mind, already whirling, struggles to put a name with her face and comes up empty. Instead, he just says, “Uh, I’m Mike? Mike Lawson?”

Her expression becomes less suspicious and more speculative. Her gaze is somehow more probing. “Right. I’m Evelyn Sanders. Since we weren’t ever introduced.” 

There's an insinuation there that Mike's not sure what to do with. He's too jumbled to read her tone and body language accurately. He wants to forgive himself for the lapse, but even in the midst of his anxiety and worry, he can hear his mom's voice, lecturing, "You can never let yourself get caught up in the fuss, Mikey. You have to stay above it, or you'll never find your way out."

Rather than wait on an explanation or further pleasantries, though, she unceremoniously takes him by the arm and marches him through a door that reads: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. When a nurse looks like she wants to object, Evelyn quells her with a single look. If Mike were capable, he’d be impressed, but most of his attention is still focused on getting to Ginny. 

“It’s good you’re here,” Evelyn says, leading him through a labyrinth of hallways. With every turn they take, he’s more and more grateful he hadn’t just rushed back here without a plan. How do the doctors ever find their way around? “She shouldn’t have to be so alone right now.”

That catches Mike’s attention. “Alone? What about her brother? Or her agent?”

Come to think of it, it’s vaguely miraculous that Amelia Slater hasn’t caught wind of his presence in the hospital and isn’t bodily blocking him from Ginny at this very moment. They've only met a few times, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out she's not his biggest fan.

Evelyn’s lips purse. “Will had to leave town, and I’m honestly not even sure where Amelia is. She wasn’t in the Padres Suite during the game, and Eliot couldn’t get a hold of her. Even before it happened.”

Mike frowns. He’s less than surprised that Will Baker took off, bad timing and all, but Amelia’s absence is worrying. Given everything he’d heard about the woman and the few things he's witnessed himself, Mike assumed that it would take an act of God to keep her from Ginny’s side at a moment like this. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, just follows Evelyn into a small, private waiting room. Ginny’s nowhere to be seen. 

Evelyn, because she just might be able to read minds, says, “They’ve taken her for an MRI, but said they’d come get me when she’s done. It was lucky I found you, I was supposed to be on the lookout for any press trying to sneak in.”

“Oh,” Mike says, shifting a little awkwardly like it'll help loose some of his nervous energy. He's got a feeling it won't begin to ebb, though, until he sees Ginny for himself. “I saw some news crews setting up outside, but I guess I wasn’t checking to see if they were coming in.”

Evelyn collapses into one of the uncomfortable looking chairs and waves him off. “It's fine. I put the fear of God into security, the receptionists, and more than a few medical staff. They know that if anyone bothers Ginny, they have a very long discussion ahead of them with the Padres legal team.”

Mike nods and settles in beside her to wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She looks small.

Tucked into her hospital bed, swathed in an over-washed hospital gown, Ginny Baker, for the first time since he’s known her, looks small.

He hovers uncertainly in the doorway even though the doctors said she could have visitors. Evelyn had already been in to see her, though Mike had given them privacy, trying to steel himself for what he would see. 

He’d gone through the tweets and news bulletins and grainy camera phone videos enough to have a rough picture of what happened: Ginny went chasing after a bunt up the third base line, and while she got the out, she also fell to the ground, clutching her arm. 

That she’d been able to walk off the field under her own power was good, but in the hours since Mike first looked at that alert on his phone, all the terrible, dire possibilities began to build up in his head. No doubt helped along by the wild, unchecked speculation raging through Twitter. 

The reality is much milder than everything he imagined. Thank God. 

Ginny’s right arm is strapped to her chest with a sling, but otherwise, she looks unharmed. The doctors haven’t put her on a drip, so her pain can’t be too bad at the very least. She's certainly tired and drawn, her eyes closed and head slumped against the pillows, but she looks mostly unharmed. 

Small, too, though. 

Finally, something shaking loose from his chest to lodge in his throat, Mike raps his knuckles on the door. Ginny’s eyes open. 

She smiles wanly at him, and Mike wanders in and sits in the chair on the left side of her bed. He itches to pick up her good hand but isn’t sure what she’d like from him.

Instead, he leans an elbow on the mattress next to her hip and props his head up on his fist, smiling serenely. “I hear I missed something of a show, today.”

Ginny rolls her eyes but struggles to push herself upright. Mike tsks and hits the button that’ll raise the head of her bed for her. That earns another eye roll, but Ginny’s fingers find his once he's done, so Mike’s not too bothered. 

“Didn’t miss much,” she mumbles. 

Mike would protest, say that coming within spitting distance of the first no-no in franchise history counts for _something_ , but Ginny’s frowning down at their entwined hands. So, he just gives her a squeeze and says, “If you say so.”

The look on her face is pure relief. She shifts, hitching her shoulder and frowning a little. 

“They give you a prognosis yet?”

She shakes her head. “I think they’re waiting on management to get here.”

Mike’s pretty sure that if her doctor knows what’s wrong, then Ginny’s entitled to that information, with or without the Padres brass, but he doesn’t voice his opinion. Well, he doesn’t get a chance to, because there’s another rap on her door. 

Ginny looks up, and it’s not until Mike sees the flash of nerves on her face that he turns, too. 

Standing in the doorway are two men that Mike might have recognized before befriending Ginny, but now identifies immediately. If only because Ginny’s been complaining about them almost nonstop for the past few days.

“How ya doin’, kid?” Al Luongo asks, coming up to Ginny’s side with a fond smile for her. And a curious glance for Mike. 

“I could be worse, skip,” she responds, though she doesn’t pull her hand from where it's tangled with Mike’s.

“I’m glad to hear that,” the other man, who can only be Oscar Arguella, says, slipping his phone into the breast pocket of an impeccably tailored suit. Only the tight set of his shoulders, loosened tie, and undone collar of his shirt speak to the kind of day he’s had. “The team, of course, sends you their best wishes. We thought you might like to wait for visitors.”

At this point, it’s impossible to keep ignoring Mike, and neither man pretends to. They both look pointedly to him, though Mike looks to Ginny to see how she wants to play this.

“Oh, this is my,” Ginny’s eyes cut to him before going back to her manager, “friend. Mike Lawson. Mike, this is Al Luongo and Oscar Arguella.”

Mike stands to shake with both men but smiles blandly at their continued curious looks. If Ginny doesn’t want to give any more information, well. She’s the boss. 

Before anyone can ask any other questions, a slightly harried woman in a lab coat bustles in, a clipboard and tablet cradled in her arms. She turns the TV on before turning to the room. “Good, everyone’s here. I’m Dr. Perez. Shall we get started?”

“Should I—?” Mike nods to the door. Arguella looks relieved at the prospect, but Luongo studies Ginny, waiting on her answer. She glances at the doctor, who shrugs, before turning to Mike.

“No,” she says, decisive. “Stay, please.”

He tries not to feel smug as he settles in to listen to a lot of medical jargon that he’s got little hope of understanding. He lays his hand on the bed, within Ginny’s reach, just in case. 

Luongo’s eyes catch on that and he snorts, shaking his head, but Mike thinks he looks pretty pleased for her. 

Which is when the doctor starts in. She fires up her tablet, and, in a few moments, what Mike assumes is an image from Ginny’s MRI shows up on the TV screen. That, more than anything he’s seen in the hospital so far, is what impresses him. He remembers going to the emergency room as a kid with a broken arm and the doctor squinting at his x-ray against the light of the fluorescent ceiling panels. 

Times certainly have changed. 

Mike tunes back in enough to catch the doctor saying, “The good news is that means nothing’s torn, and as long as you rest and rebuild your strength, nothing should. The bad news is that before you can think about playing again, you have a lot of physical therapy to get through.”

Somberly, Ginny nods, but it’s Arguella who asks the question. “How long will she need to rehab?” 

“I’d say at least six weeks of rest—no throwing, no heavy lifting—and then four to six weeks of PT before you start a light throwing regimen again.”

“But I won’t need surgery?”

The doctor smiles, a little indulgent. “No. As long as you don’t push yourself too hard, the tendons should heal on their own.”

Ginny lets out a sigh of relief, and most of the tension that Mike had been carrying around all afternoon evaporates. Al and Oscar look mighty pleased, too.

The doctor runs through a few more observations and warnings before Ginny’s MRI disappears from the TV screen. 

“I’ll make sure to send this over to the Padres training staff, and then we should be able to get you discharged. Do you have someone who can stay with you? Since we’ll send you home with some of the good pain meds, it’s important you have someone around in case you react poorly. And make sure you don’t exert yourself too much.”

Mike’s eyes cut to Ginny, and she’s already looking at him. He shrugs, grinning easily at the question in her eyes. Both of Ginny’s managers are eyeing them, Oscar warily and Al in amusement. 

“You think you can put up with me, Baker?” he asks, ignoring everyone but Ginny.

Her lips twitch along with her fingers, which brush up against the edge of his hand. “It’s doctor’s orders, old man,” she teases, and Mike cannot believe his ears. Apparently, Ginny can’t either because she flushes a little. She doesn't let her embarrassment get the better of her, though, her chin jutting out, and she's finally looking more like herself. Less scared and uncertain, at the very least. 

“Well, who am I to argue with a doctor?” he says rather than embarrass her further in front of her bosses (though she definitely hasn’t heard the last of that) before turning to the doctor in question. “So, what do we need to do to get her out of here?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Obviously, he wishes the circumstances were different, but Mike loves having Ginny around all the time. He loves waking up with her and watching her comb through her wet hair after a shower. He loves making coffee for two and grabbing her favorite yogurt at the store. He loves calling in sick to work just to hang out with her and arguing over her awful taste in movies. He loves falling into bed at night, having spent the whole day with her, and being so eager to wake up and do it all again.

Mostly, he likes the fact that she needs him, at least a little. 

He remembers how she’d crowded against him when they fought their way inside the Omni that first night to pick up some of her stuff. Neither of them had thought about the fact that her hotel would be swarming with photographers and fans, all eager for news on the future of Ginny Baker. 

He’d given her a hoodie that had fallen out of his gym bag and taken up residence in his back seat, and she’d pulled it on like armor. Even with the hood up and her hat pulled low over her eyes, it hadn’t been enough to discourage attention. Phones and flashbulbs were shoved in their faces. Mike initially wrapped his arm around Ginny’s back because he worried about losing her in the crush, but her shoulders straightened and her head raised at his touch.

Which was the first time he realized that brave and strong as Ginny Baker is, she could do with some support. 

And he is determined to give it to her.

Well, as much as he can.

By some miracle, he hadn’t been fired for walking out on the job, though Mike almost wishes that he had. He’d have so much more time to dedicate to keeping Ginny out of trouble. 

Not that she seems all that interested in staying out of trouble. 

In spite of her manager’s warnings to stay home, Ginny is at Petco again the next day, dressing for their home game and sitting in the dugout with her teammates. When she comes back to the apartment, she looks exhausted for all she couldn’t have done all that much.

She walks straight for Mike, who’d been making dinner in anticipation of her arrival, and burrows into his side, sighing heavily. 

“You know no one would blame you if you laid low for a few days,” he murmurs, putting down his spatula to wrap his arms around her.

“I would,” she replies into his chest. 

Heart aching for this incredible woman who is still somehow not his girlfriend—it’s not the kind of conversation to have when her entire world is crumbling around her—Mike decides to step up his game.

Which is how he starts his Cheer Ginny Up campaign. 

(If it also serves as a front to finally take her on all the dates he's had cooking on the back burner, he figures multi-tasking is just a sign of an enterprising mind.)

He starts by taking her out to all the places in San Diego he’s sure she’s been to busy to see. They begin in Balboa Park, hitting the zoo and the art museum over her off days and exploring each at length. 

She seems to have fun, but every time she gets recognized, Mike can tell his plan isn’t working the way he'd wanted. Though she smiles gamely for every selfie, each one is a reminder of the game she loves and can’t play. 

So Mike switches gears. They go and sit in dark movie theaters, munching through buckets of popcorn and Red Vines. He starts teaching her how to cook more than just mac and cheese from the box. Mike even lets Ginny guide him through her easiest yoga poses. He feels ridiculous, bent over huffing and puffing and probably turning an unflattering shade of red, right up until her hand slides up the back of his thigh to cup his ass as she teases him about his form.

Eventually, though, Cheer Ginny Up devolves into letting her beat him at video games or falling into bed together. Okay. Mostly, it’s the second one.

Mike applies himself diligently to the oldest stress relief in the book, though it’s not as if getting Ginny off is any kind of hardship for him. 

He had been a little nervous about hurting her more, though.

“I’m not gonna break,” she panted harshly into his mouth as her good arm wound its way around his neck. It’d only been a few days since her injury and Mike had been treating her with kid gloves. If such a thing was possible when he was also focused on wringing as much pleasure out of her as physically possible. “‘M not fragile. Not delicate. So fuck me like you mean it.”

Because there was no universe in which Mike doesn’t give Ginny exactly what she wanted, he rolled them over and set about showing her exactly how much she could take. 

If, much later, Mike woke up to Ginny’s tears leaking onto his chest and, after he’d kissed them away, made it a point to show her that gentle and tender could be as satisfying as hard and fast, that was his own business. When she finally collapsed against him, for once shuddery in a way that wasn’t from repressed tears, Mike hoped she’d understood.

So, even though Mike hates the reason behind it, he kind of loves how close he and Ginny have gotten. They’re friends, but might as well be living together. Mike would really be okay if that “might as well” takes a hike in the very near future. 

September’s nearly over and the Padres haven’t got a chance in hell at making the playoffs. Ginny could officially move out of the Omni, and Mike could probably figure out a way to tell her he wants to date her. If that’s something she’d be interested in. He’ll probably live if it’s not, but— God, he _really_ wants to date her. 

Which is, of course, when everything starts to go wrong. 

Ginny’s off on the last of her road trips, two three-day series in the East that won’t shift the Padres out of their place at the bottom of the standings regardless of their performance. 

Mike misses her. More than he probably should, but that’s his business, okay?

He’s sitting on his couch, watching the Nationals trounce the Padres if only for a hope of catching a glimpse of Ginny in the visitor’s dugout. She’s never played in Washington before, so the camera crews make sure to show her a couple of times, the announcers commiserating over the heartbreaking end to her season and speculating about her chances of recovery. Mike scowls at the idiots who’d bet against Ginny Baker, but the sight of her leaning up against the dugout barrier is worth the annoyance.

Beside him, his phone begins to vibrate.

His stomach sinks as he looks at the unfamiliar number flashing across his screen. Mike couldn’t say how he knows exactly who’s on the other line, but it’s not as if he’s been giving his number out lately, even when it's clear someone's very interested in having it. He's got more than enough on his plate with five and a half feet of major league pitcher regularly sharing his bed. 

But he stares at the lit up face of his phone and just _knows_  that this isn’t gonna be good. 

Taking a deep breath, he answers. 

“Hey, ma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who guessed that Mike's mom was gonna make an appearance, kudos to you! I would love to see what Jackie Lawson is currently up to in canon. I would actually just like to see everyone's parents. And children, And extended family. That's realistic, right?
> 
> Anyway, the end is in sight. As in, I've actually written out a bare bones outline and know what the ending is now. I knew I'd figure out how to plan what I write some day. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this, you're all wonderful! Let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things pt. 2

Any time Ginny’d let herself imagine her first season in the majors, she’d tried to keep a level head. She was, at heart, a realist. She knew what she was capable of, but almost more importantly, she knew what the world would decide she was capable of. So, she didn’t imagine what it would be like to throw the last out of Game 7 of the World Series; she wasn’t a closer and no manager in their right mind would put her in that spot. Honestly, she didn’t really even dream of _making_ it to the World Series; as long as the Padres didn’t trade her, it seemed like a pipe dream.

Much as she tried to temper her expectations, keep them low, she never once stooped to thinking that she’d end her first season on the DL, kept from even shagging balls during batting practice by her worry wart of a manager and teammates. She definitely didn’t think that Amelia would have abandoned her or that her brother would have lied to get more money out of her. 

And yet, here she is.

On the other hand, though, there was no way she would have even thought to imagine Mike Lawson. 

Or that she’d practically be living with him, pretty happy in spite of all the other bullshit in her life. 

Ginny’s not sure how, but he’s become the person she trusts the most in her life. 

Which is ridiculous. How is her best friend a 36-year-old car salesman?

To be fair, Mike seems as lost on that front as she is. 

One, day, he looked down at her in bemusement. They were sprawled on his couch, Ginny tucked under his arm as they both failed to pay attention to the documentary playing on Mike’s flatscreen. Blip could make fun of her all he wanted, but Ken Burns was _boring_.

“I’m not convinced this isn’t the set up for your off-season reality show,” he teased, a funny little frown on his face. 

“That’d be a pretty boring show. Are people just supposed to watch us watching TV?”

“C’mon, think about it,” he said, pulling her foot into his lap and starting to knead. Like he didn’t know exactly how hard that made it for Ginny to think. “People love to see celebrities being regular humans. And I’m sure more would love to keep up with your recovery. Only makes sense for someone to try and capitalize on that. ‘Ginny Baker: On the Ball’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Don’t think someone hasn’t already tried,” she muttered back, trying hard not to encourage him. But then Mike’s hands were dancing up her legs and the reality of her life, televised or not, went out the window for the time being. 

But she can’t avoid it forever. 

With Amelia gone, Ginny’s been forced to field most of the business side of the Ginny Baker Brand herself. Eliot’s been as helpful as he can, continuing to take care of her social media presence and a lot of her scheduling, but since he’s not an agent, he’s technically not allowed to negotiate contracts for her. 

That’s all on Ginny. 

She is reasonably sure a couple separate networks have floated ideas for reality shows, but hasn’t brought herself to look over any of the proposals. 

She should really look into hiring a new agent. 

Every time she starts to stress about it, though, unwilling to admit that maybe Amelia is out of her life for good, Mike swoops in and helps her relax. Gets her to take her mind off things for a while until she’s in a better headspace. 

Which can be difficult. 

What? It’s not her fault that it can be hard to think when she’s around Mike. 

Which, on the one hand is such a fucking _relief_  Ginny sometimes wants to scream. 

On the other, it leads to phone calls like the one she’s currently on with her mother. 

“I just think you should have told me that you were seeing someone, Ginny Bean,” comes Janet’s worried voice over the connection. Ginny suppresses the urge to roll her eyes before remembering that her mother’s all the way in North Carolina and can’t see her. She rolls her eyes. “I mean, to find out from Mrs. Hutchinson down the street because she’d been reading _Us Weekly...”_

“Mom,” Ginny groans, trying to remember if _Us Weekly_  is the one that ran the pictures of her with her hand in Mike’s back pocket or if that was something else. She’s pretty sure it doesn’t actually matter since the pictures are apparently telling enough that her mom has broken their biweekly phone call rule to chew her out about this. Slumping to the counter, too tired to hold herself up and deal with her mom at the same time, she grimaces when her bad elbow comes down too hard on the surface. In fits and starts, the joint is getting better, but not with the speed or ease that she wants. “It’s not like that. Mike was just helping me out while I had to wear the sling.”

Janet snorts, and Ginny wonders why she even bothers. “So you’re not living with this man?”

Well. While there is technically still a room in Ginny’s name at the Omni, she hasn’t seen the inside of it for more than a few hours at a time in weeks. 

“I’m _staying_  with him, mom. It’s not like we moved in together.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re dating someone and didn’t tell me.”

There wasn’t much Ginny could say to that. She could say that she and Mike weren’t dating, but more and more, that was starting to feel like a lie. And not a lie that she wants to tell.  

She hasn’t had many boyfriends in her life, but Mike Lawson is better than all of them. And has stuck around longer, too. 

Ginny sighs down the line and bites the bullet. “Fine. I should have told you and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“I accept your apology,” Janet replies primly before shifting to what must be her real reason for calling. “Now, when am I going to meet him?”

There’s a ringing in Ginny’s ears. She has to shake her head hard to get it to quiet. “Meet him?” she finally rasps. 

“Yes, meet him,” her mom echoes, like it should be obvious. “I think I have a right to meet my daughter’s boyfriend. Particularly if you’re living—oh, I’m sorry— _staying_  with him. Are you two coming for Thanksgiving?”

They’re hardly even into October. Ginny’d thought she’d have weeks to plan an excuse for not going home to Tarboro. An important appointment with her doctor, maybe, or some event for the front office. Because while she hasn’t even asked yet if Kevin will be in attendance, the prospect of a long weekend with her mother and Will is more than enough to make her want to stay far, far away. 

To make matters worse, Mike picks that moment to walk in the front door, laden with grocery bags, his tie hanging loose from his neck. The soft grin he shoots her has Ginny letting her guard down, which is never a good thing when her mom is involved. 

Scrambling to come up with _something_ , she replies, “I don’t think so? The doctors haven’t cleared me to travel without a team physician, yet.” 

And they never would. Ginny Baker might be an investment for the Padres, but it's just a bad case of tendinitis. 

Her mom’s disappointed huff isn’t a victory, but it sounds so much like one to Ginny’s ears. “All right,” she sighs. “But you better be coming home for Christmas.”

Ginny makes placating sounds without promising anything, doing her best to get off the call without giving her mom any fuel for their next argument. There’s a 60% chance she’s unsuccessful given Janet Baker’s hum of disapproval when they finally say goodbye, but she can’t bring herself to care. 

Ginny groans and slumps all the way down, her forehead landing on the kitchen counter. 

“Your mom?” Mike chuckles. There’s a quiet _clink_  next to her ear, which, when she lifts her head, proves itself to be a hard cider he’d begrudgingly made room for in his fridge.

“How’d you know?” she drawls back, pushing her hair off her forehead and giving it a ruffle for good measure before grabbing the cold bottle. “Was it the tone she always says I get or the attitude that needs an adjustment?”

It’s nice to have someone to complain about her mom to. As understanding as Blip and Evelyn are, they both lucked out in the parental lottery. Neither of them really understand what a truly tense relationship with a parent is like. 

But Mike? Mike understands. 

She realized this when he overheard a call that ended with a terse, “Yeah, okay. Fine. I’ll call you later,” and nearly fifteen minutes of silent fuming as Ginny tried to rein in her temper. When it became clear that wasn’t actually working, he’d sat down next to her, but didn’t say a word. Ginny wasn’t sure what it was he did, but somehow, she spent the next half hour spilling her guts about her mom and Kevin and her dad and the crash and the immense pressure she was constantly under before finally collapsing heavily on his chest while he rubbed soothing circles on her back. 

He told her that he and his mom hadn’t seen each other in years and that it never stops sucking to have a shitty relationship with a parent.

It wasn’t precisely helpful, but it was honest, and Ginny could always do with more honesty in her life. 

And when that honesty comes in a Mike Lawson shaped package, she’s really not going to argue. 

Mike just shakes his head at her and starts loading produce into the refrigerator. Ginny hops up on the island to watch, rolling her cider between her palms. After a moment, he asks, “What’d you two talk about?”

“Thanksgiving and whether or not we’re joining them in Tarboro.”

“We?”

Her eyes widen. Shit. It just slipped out, natural as anything.

Before the silence stretches out too long, she blurts, “She thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

Mike, to his credit, doesn’t freeze at the word, just continues putting away groceries. But Ginny can see the way his shoulders twitch like he’s doing everything in his power to remain nonchalant. “Oh?” he asks, tone a few notes higher than usual. 

Ginny picks uneasily at the label on her bottle, unsure of what to make of Mike’s refusal to make eye contact. She’s gotten pretty good at reading him, but when all she can see is his back, even she has a hard time. 

“Yeah,” she breathes. 

Finally, Mike closes the fridge doors and turns back to her. His face is carefully blank when he asks, “And what do you think?”

“Um.” Instinctively, she takes a swig from her bottle and then sets it down beside her. To give herself a moment. Mike watches her steadily and finally she has to reply, “I don’t know?”

His lips quirk a little at that, but he doesn’t move closer and there’s a wariness in his eyes. Still, he replies, “That’s okay. What about this: are we dating?”

“Does it count as dating if we don’t ever leave the apartment?” she jokes, trying to dance away from the topic at hand. 

(She knows what she wants, but what if Mike doesn’t want the same thing? He had to have lots of chances to settle down before he met her, and never did. Even though he’s been so good to her lately, she can’t imagine that he’s been single so long by anything other than choice. How hadn’t the single women of San Diego snapped him up before now?)

Mike’s half-grin remains, but Ginny doesn’t miss the quick furrow of his eyebrows or the way he blinks twice, right in a row. 

“Is that what you think?” There’s nothing accusatory in his tone or Ginny would bristle and tell him to forget it. Instead, it’s just curiosity. And maybe an edge of hurt that makes her gut tighten.

“I mean,” she says, wishing she had more time to think, “we go out to run errands or pick up more of my stuff from the Omni. Mostly, though we just hang around here—which isn’t a bad thing! I like hanging out! But we don’t go _out_ out. You know?”

He nods like what she said wasn’t just nonsense. 

“To be fair, we did try that,” he says and Ginny thinks of the trips to the zoo and the museum. Wandering between the animal enclosures and exhibits, tucked under Mike’s arm. How good she’d felt there, in spite of the pangs in her elbow and the occasional pause to take a picture with a fan. Why had they stopped those? Like he reads her mind, Mike continues, “You’re just too popular for your own good.”

That, unfortunately, is true. It hadn’t taken long between the first picture of her and Mike wandering the zoo holding hands hitting twitter before they were practically overrun with paparazzi. Ginny’d thought they’d have better things to do than follow her around as she looked at the animals, but it was apparently a slow news day. 

Come to think of it, those were the pictures that ended up in Mrs. Hutchinson’s copy of _Us Weekly._

(Which is another thing. Why on earth would he sign up to ride out the rollercoaster of Ginnsanity with her? What sane person would sign on for that, no matter how much they like her? He hadn’t seemed to mind the crush of press right after her injury, when it seemed like she couldn’t move without setting off a flash bulb, but maybe he was just being a good sport or it’s gotten old now. Is the public scrutiny too much for him?)

She shakes her head. “You know I don’t care about that.”

Finally, Mike takes a step towards her. He reaches out and cups her cheek. Instantly, she feels better, which she knows isn’t good if she and Mike aren’t on the same page. Who’s going to make her feel better if things go south?

“I know, Gin,” he soothes, his thumb tracing the apple of her cheek before he pulls his hand away. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to put up with all the staring and gossip and speculation about why you’re dating some middle-aged nobody when you could have anyone.”

Ginny stares at him for a long moment.

“Mike,” she grins, so overcome with fondness for this man. Her hands come up to lace behind his neck. “You know that no matter who I’m seen with, there’s going to be wild speculation, right? Like, I went to In-N-Out with Will while he was here and someone got a shot of us. At least four gossip sites ran it with a story that he was my new fling. My _brother,_ Mike.”

Reluctantly, he smiles at her grossed out shudder. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could have anyone. But if I’m going to be the object of gossip because of who I’m dating, then I should date the person I want.” Here, she makes sure he’s looking her full in the face when she finishes, “And I want you.”

Thankfully, Mike doesn’t give her much of a chance to get nervous about her declaration because he pretty much flattens her against the countertop, his mouth moving insistently against hers. His hands settle heavily, perfectly, on her waist, the wide spread of his fingers covering more of her than she’d thought possible. His hold tightens on her as he climbs onto the counter to really drive home his enthusiasm for her assessment. 

Well, he _tries._

His knee slips off the edge of the island and it’s a close call between his teeth and Ginny’s full bottom lip. 

“Shit,” he hisses, standing upright and drawing Ginny up, too. At the sight of her bright, laughing eyes, he shakes his head. “I’m getting too old for this, rookie.”

“Maybe I _should_ trade in for a newer model, old man,” she teases even as her knees tighten around his hips and her fingers tangle in his tie. 

“How about you take this one for a test drive and I show you what it can really do,” he purrs back, looming over her.

Laughingly, she agrees, reeling him in to let him get started.

 

* * *

When, a whole month after the fact, a familiar name flashes across Ginny’s phone screen for the first time, she seriously considers ignoring it. But she’s technically finished her workout for the day, even if her regimen isn’t as strict as it is when she’s in the rotation. So, she stops cycling and picks up the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Ginny,” comes the no nonsense voice of her (former?) agent. “I’d like to speak with you. Do you have time this evening?”

“Uh.” Ginny’s feet slip off the pedals, thudding heavily to the ground. “What?”

Amelia sighs impatiently, but doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she repeats, “Do you have time to speak with me this evening?”

Ginny’s mind tumbles as she tries to make sense of what is happening. Why now? Why at all? 

Still, she finds herself answering, “Sure. I guess.”

Which is how she finds herself sitting in the hotel room she hasn’t seen for more than twenty minutes at a time—except for the few times she and Mike got distracted by the pillow top King size mattress—in weeks, staring down her agent. 

They both sit in bar stools, untouched glasses of water before them. 

Ginny waits, unsure of what Amelia has to say, and unwilling to be the first to speak. After all, she isn’t the one who ghosted after a fairly traumatic experience only to show up a month later demanding a meeting. 

She uses the silence to study Amelia. She looks good. Less frazzled than usual, for sure, so the time off did her some good. She’s tan, too, clearly having spent a lot of time in the sun. Not a whole month, which Ginny guesses isn’t surprising. There’s no way high-strung, high-achieving Amelia could have let go enough to spend a whole month laying on a beach somewhere. Maybe a few days to wind down, but not four weeks. 

Which begs the question: what has she been doing? 

Finally, Amelia sighs and begins. 

“First, I’d like to apologize for the way I handled your brother. While I stand by my instincts, I’m sure there was a better way to go about acting on them. I wanted to protect you, but I can see that I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

Ginny nods at this, slow and considering. She appreciates the way Amelia doesn’t try to shift blame, even though Evelyn has told her about how she’d gone to Amelia for help upon finding discrepancies in the restaurant’s accounts. 

Still, she’s not sure it’s enough. 

“I can understand if you don’t think you can work with me any more, but I do believe in you, Ginny. More than any other client I’ve worked with. If you think we can move past this, I would like to go forward with our working relationship.”

She nods again, chewing on her lip. Finally, she looks Amelia square in the eye. “Thank you for saying that. You’re a good agent and I’d like to have you back on my side. But I think we’ll need to figure out our boundaries before we do that.”

Amelia’s mouth twists at that and her eyes cut to her briefcase.

Because Ginny knows Amelia, knows that look, she just closes her eyes and asks, “What did you do?”

There’s a rustling and then the sound of paper sliding across a smooth surface. When she opens her eyes, she’s treated to the sight of a slim manila folder, Mike’s name printed clearly on the tab. 

“What is this?”

“I did some digging—”

“You ran a background check on him?” Ginny asks, incredulously staring at the file but refusing to take it.

Amelia huffs, looking entirely unimpressed. “Of course I did. I run background checks on everyone who has access to you, Gin. And mostly, I overlook the trivial stuff—you wouldn’t believe what ballplayers get into and think they can cover up with a few sloppy NDAs—but this guy spends so much time with you and you got attached so fast.”

“Only you could make me befriending someone sound bad.”

Amelia doesn’t back down. “Don’t tell me you’re just friends, G. I’ve seen the pictures.” 

Ginny doesn’t flush because she hasn’t done anything wrong. The thought that _this,_ and not repairing their fractured relationship, is what has brought Amelia back sits hard in her throat. Hearing about the injury hadn’t been enough to bring her back, but Ginny in the media spotlight without any guidance had tipped the scales. 

“Fine,” she replies, pushing the file folder away. “We’re dating. Which really isn’t any of your business, Amelia. I like him. He doesn’t lie to me—”

Amelia snorts. Or as close to snorting as the elegant blonde gets. She flips the file folder open and shows Ginny a page. “Doesn’t lie to you? Did he tell you he has a record?”

Ginny doesn’t look, but asks, feeling a ball of guilt and nerves settle in her stomach as she does, “He’s been to jail?”

“Juvie.”

“Amelia,” Ginny groans, suddenly feeling much better about this conversation. She’s pretty sure a solid chunk of the Padres have done stints in juvie, not to mention kids from her high school. 

Her agent had the grace to look sheepish. “I know, I know, G. But you need to see this.”

Reluctantly, Ginny takes the folder, but she doesn’t read the page. Isn’t this some kind of violation of privacy? She checks, “Don’t juvenile records get sealed or something?”

“It’s not his actual record. Just read it,” Amelia urges.

With a sigh and because she knows the blonde won’t rest until she does, she looks down at what looks like a photocopied newspaper clipping. Well, at least Amelia hadn’t broken any laws for this information. Ginny skims just enough of the article to get its gist, though she writes off some of the more sensational aspects. Just the author trying to spice up a fairly routine article, no doubt. 

Nonetheless, she feels guilty the whole time she reads. Guilty and a little crushed at this glimpse of Mike’s childhood. He hasn’t told her much about growing up, and Ginny gets the sense that he doesn’t like thinking about it, let alone telling her all the sordid details. 

Firmly, she shuts the folder, wishing it would be as easy to shut off this new information.

If Mike had wanted her to know this about himself, he would have told her. It’s as simple as that. And it happened so long ago. And anyway:

“He doesn’t even talk to his mom anymore.”

Amelia’s lips purse and while Ginny is intimately familiar with the woman’s “You go ahead and think that you poor simpleton” look, it’s never actually been directed at her. 

“Maybe that’s true,” the blonde says doubtfully. And there it is. “But I’m just looking out for you Ginny. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

 

* * *

“Think you can keep up, old man?” she asks as she stretches one hamstring and then the other.

“I’m sure I can’t,” he replies dryly. He’s stretching half-heartedly, mostly because Ginny’s entirely unsympathetic to his aches and pains when he doesn’t even pretend to limber up. And Ginny’s sympathies are, if she says so herself, not to be missed. 

She hops in place a few times and says, “I’m holding you to that!”

Grinning wide, she takes off, laughing at Mike’s indignant squawk.

When they make it back to his apartment, both sweaty, but Mike definitely breathing harder, Ginny doesn’t wait to get into the bathroom to start peeling off her clothes.

This, undoubtedly, is the best part of running with Mike. The first time they’d come back, she’d raced up the stairs to get into the shower first, unwilling to sit around in her sweaty clothes while she waited around for him to finish up. Ginny thought she’d won, happily soaping up as she heard Mike groan all the way from the front door. 

It wasn’t until the shower door opened and another body joined her, that she realized winning might not be everything.

“What are you doing?” she’d asked as one of his big hands came to rest on her stomach and the other pulled the soapy washcloth from her grip.

“Maybe you haven’t heard, but we’re in the middle of a drought. Just doing my part to save water,” he murmured, drawing lazy, bubbly circles over her body.

“Oh, well,” she drawled tipping her head back against Mike’s shoulder, “if it’s for the environment.”

They’re _very_ eco-friendly around here. 

Mike’s fingers curl into the waistband of her running shorts as Ginny kicks off her shoes and socks. The shorts—and her underwear—quickly join them on the floor. 

Before he can get too solid a grip on her, Ginny spins in his arms, whisking his shirt up and over his head in one smooth movement. He chuckles at her impatience, but that chokes off when her hands work into his shorts, wrapping around his dick. It’s already half hard. His mouth descends on hers, all-consuming. 

Mike stumbles a little as he works off his shoes, not once unsealing his lips from hers. 

Finally, they’re both naked, standing in the middle of his apartment, making out like teenagers. Ginny’s hand hasn’t left his erection, which has swelled to full attention under her eager ministrations, and Mike’s have gravitated to her ass.

They do have to breathe, though. Ginny’s forehead drops to Mike’s shoulder and she draws in a deep breath. 

As soon as she does, her nose wrinkles. 

“You smell, Lawson,” she accuses, reeling away from him.

Mike roars with laughter, his arms banding behind her back to keep her from getting away. Ginny wriggles, giggling herself and liking the rub of his thighs and stomach against her. Eventually, he manages to gasp out, “You’re no spring rose yourself, Baker.”

Her giggles die away. She leans back from him. Which has the double effect of allowing her to glare at him and also pressing her stomach against his hips, trapping his flushed, hard dick between their bodies. 

The laughter fades at that, but he’s still smiling. “C’mon, rookie. I know how we can fix that.”

For people who are theoretically saving water, Mike and Ginny probably spend too much time under the shower head. Most of it not spent getting clean. 

Most of it, in fact, spent being very, _very_  dirty.

Eventually, though, they do have to get out or risk turning into prunes. Besides, it’s not like they have to be in the shower to do what they’re doing. There’s the bed for that. And the couch. And the kitchen counter.

The thought makes her giggle a little. Mike just offers her a goofy grin, wrapping a towel around his waist. 

“I’m gonna get started on dinner. How does pasta sound?”

“Perfect,” she replies, settling onto the edge of the tub to start combing through her hair. She’s tried to do it around Mike before, but inevitably gets distracted. Which in the short run is pretty fucking fun, but in the long run leaves her with a mess of knots and snarls to deal with. Same with her post-shower skin care. As nice as it is to have an extra set of hands to rub lotion into her back, when those hands turn wandering, it’s hard to stay focused. And ashy knees and elbows just aren’t worth it.

When Ginny emerges from the bathroom, skin moisturized and hair detangled, she opens her mouth to ask if Mike needs any help. He never does, but she’d feel weird not asking. Before she can speak, though, the sound of Mike speaking catches her attention. 

At first, she doesn’t want to interrupt him, thinking he’s on the phone with a client, but soon, she needs to hear how the conversation ends. She hovers in the bathroom door, concealed from sight, just listening.

“Yeah, ma,” he says, and Ginny almost doesn’t hear the frustration in his voice, not when who he’s talking to sinks in. His mom? Before she can dive too deep into that rabbit hole, he continues, “She’s still staying here.”

Ginny’s heart lodges in her throat as she struggles to wrap her brain around what’s happening. He’s talking about _her_? To his _mom_? The mom he told her he hasn’t contacted in years? 

“No, I told you, it’s gonna take time.”

All at once, Amelia’s folder of information swim to the forefront of Ginny’s thoughts. Snatches of that article (“ _Like mother like son.”_ And _, “Makings of a career criminal.”_ And, “ _Only time will tell.”)_  flash across her vision like she’s living out some kind of thriller and this is the moment she uncovers the crucial piece of evidence. 

But she can’t quite make herself believe it.

Maybe there’s another explanation. Maybe he’s not talking to his mother about her. 

And what the hell is going to take time?

“I know. Ma,” he says, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I know what you told me, but it’s taking longer than I thought it would. Just be patient, I can handle it.”

What he says next, though, it cements that sickening, unsettling feeling in her gut.

“You’ll get the money when you get the money.”

The ground falls out from under her. Mechanically, hearing her heart throb in her ears, she steps out of the bathroom, closing the door hard behind her. With just her towel clutched to her chest, she feels far too exposed. Too fragile. 

Mike looks up at the latch of the door. When he catches sight of her, the frustrated frown that’d pulled his eyebrows down into a furrow smooths into a fond little smile. He holds up one finger and Ginny finds herself nodding in spite of herself. That smile, it automatically makes her smile back. Despite the roiling emptiness inside her.

“Yeah, all right. See you soon.” He hangs up , continuing to smile at Ginny like nothing is amiss. Like the earth hasn’t shifted underneath them.

Maybe for him, it hasn’t. Maybe this has been the plan all along. 

“Who was that?” she asks, impressed with herself for keeping her voice so steady. 

Blithely, Mike slides the phone into his pocket. “No one,” he replies, smiling so tenderly at her. 

Nothing of her misgivings must show on her face because Mike leaves the kitchen to come to her, that same, gentle smile on his face. When she’s within reach, he kisses her as sweetly as he ever has, but something bitter still unfolds on Ginny’s tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, hello. it's been approximately forever. sorry about that!
> 
> I do promise that I will finish this story, it just might take a while. (which is my mantra lately) I have a bunch of prompts that I'm trying to finish, so this got pushed to the side. When I realized waiting to finish all of my prompts was a lost cause, I decided to go ahead and knock this one out. 
> 
> Anyway, thoughts on Amelia coming back? Questions about Mike's mom and what she and her son are up to? Concerns about how long I'm going to make you wait for the next chapter? Lay 'em on me! As always, here and on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... come to an end

Mike couldn’t say when, exactly, Ginny’s belongings begin to disappear from his apartment. 

It happens too gradually, and he’s got too many irons in the fire, but one day, Mike looks around and the apartment feels empty. Lonely.

There isn’t a crumb-filled plate on the side table next to Ginny’s corner of the couch. His shaving cream stands alone on the bathroom counter, surrounded by the space all of Ginny’s toiletries left behind. Her side of the bed remains untouched, and all of it is hitting him out of nowhere.

It’s not that he hasn’t noticed that she’s spending fewer nights with him, but that’s economy more than anything else. Ginny’s started her physical therapy in earnest now. It makes more sense for her to be close to Petco, and that means staying at the Omni. Anyway, Mike’s taking more shifts at the dealership than usual, so it’s not like he’s spending much time at the apartment either.

If she were around more often, Mike’s sure he wouldn’t get away with avoiding questions about his suddenly full schedule. Not that he really knows how he’d answer. 

As it is, Ginny doesn’t ask many questions. 

(She’d frowned the first and last time she brought it up. “It’s Saturday. You’re really going into work?”

Mike had just shrugged, as if to say, “ _Rich people and their cars. What can I do?”_ and dropped a kiss to her forehead. What he did say, when he pulled back and she was still frowning, was, “My landlord will thank me when my rent check doesn’t bounce. I’ll be back by seven. Let me know if I should bring back dinner.”

If he were less distracted by his mental calculations, trying to figure out how many commissions he needed before life could go back to normal, he might’ve noticed the anxiety on Ginny’s face. He might’ve read the tension in her shoulders and neck, the way her eyes squeezed shut as he pressed his lips to her furrowed brow. 

He wasn’t, though, so he didn’t.)

He might feel better about it if she did, though. Feel less like he’s keeping secrets. 

Which. He definitely is, but that’s semantics.

How can he explain these new long hours without outright lying? Strange as it is, money’s never been a big issue between them. The fact that she’s got a multi-million dollar contract with the Padres and most of his income comes from commission, not his pittance of a salary, hasn’t bothered him before. 

If anything is going to make Mike uncertain or self-conscious about his relationship with Ginny, it isn’t _money_. Not when photographers and fans and so-called journalists follow her every move. 

Besides, It’s not like Ginny’s begging to go out to expensive restaurants or on fancy vacations. And if she did, Mike’s pretty sure she wouldn’t expect him to pay. He likes to think he’s evolved enough to be comfortable with letting his girlfriend pay his way around. Occasionally. If he got a really fancy vacation and vacation sex out of the deal. 

As it is, there’s no point in trying to impress her with more than his ability to prepare a home-cooked meal and make her forget everything aside from his name in bed. 

Luckily, Mike’s pretty fucking good at both of those things.

Unluckily, he’s also pretty fucking good at keeping secrets.

It’s almost unconscious, the way he manages this one, keeps the truth from Ginny as deftly as he’s ever conned a mark. But it’s not like Mike’s proud of it. The fact of the matter is that he’s no stranger to the strategic manipulation of information.

Which doesn’t mean he’s _lying_  to Ginny. She hasn’t come out and asked him why he needs to work so much when he’s never been more than ambivalent about his career. If anything, it’s a sin of omission. And one that should keep her from getting hurt.

That has to matter. Right? 

(Just because he tries to make himself feel better, doesn’t mean he’s that successful.)

There are too many questions and none of them have easy answers. He torments himself all day at work, only half his attention on clients and cars, the other half focused on the endless litany churning through his mind.

How the hell is he supposed to tell her that his mom’s a con artist? How does he tell her he used to be one, too? How does he say his mom thinks their relationship is just another con? Or that she wants in on the payout? How does he tell Ginny that he hasn’t set his mom straight? How does he tell her that he’s going to pay her off, just with his own money? How does he break that news without making her question everything else he’s ever told her?

How does he get out of this without breaking Ginny’s trust?

And that’s the heart of it.

Ginny had a rough childhood of her own and Mike wants to believe that she wouldn’t judge him for his own past, not if he tells her the truth of it all and how it’s threatening to detonate in the present. But there are years, decades even, of his mom’s warnings and threats and scare tactics keeping him quiet. As a kid, the truth could, and sometimes did, get them run out of town, once someone figured out Jackie Lawson’s game and Mike’s place in it all. 

For nearly eighteen years, he’d been his mom’s literal partner in crime. Her shill.

It’s not something Mike’s ever admitted to anyone, doesn’t even like admitting it to himself. He just can’t imagine anyone’s opinion of him not changing in the face of that knowledge.

And if there’s anyone in the world whose good opinion and trust he craves, it’s Ginny Baker.

The fact that he currently has it makes its potential loss all the more gutting.

Jesus, this is quite the bed he’s made for himself. 

After the months they’ve spent together, all the things he’s learned about Ginny, this isn’t the kind of information he can just laugh off. 

“Oh, did I not mention that my estranged mother wants me to extort you for thousands of dollars? No? Haha, my bad, Gin. Anyway, what should we have for dinner?”

Yeah fucking right.

Even if she believes that he _doesn’t_  actually have a plan to pull a long con on her, there’s no way that Mike gets out of this without telling her about his past. And his past isn’t like Ginny’s: tough but ultimately the backbone of her success. 

Mike’s past was just tough.

Much as he tries to leave that past behind him, he should have known better than to expect it to stay there.

(“Hey, ma,” he’d said, that first call, some sixth sense kicking in despite the unknown number listed on caller ID. 

“Mikey,” she’d greeted, as sweet as ever. Well, when she wanted something at least.

The last he’d heard, Jackie Lawson had been running a clip joint somewhere near Bakersfield. This was after stepdad #3 decided he was no longer interested in funding her spending habits. Gone were the days of short game after short game, cutting and running at the first whiff of trouble. It was almost as if she was growing as a person. 

Almost.

“What do you want?” he sighed, muting the television. Something told him it would be better to give all his attention to this conversation.

“A woman can’t call her son?”

“Not when it’s been five years since the last call.”

Jackie sighed, sounding put upon. Perversely, Mike couldn’t help but feel guilty. This was his mother, for God’s sake. It was easy to get hung up on her questionable qualities, but there had been good times. His mom wasn’t a complete monster. He could’ve picked up the phone, too. 

Like she could sense him weakening, Jackie pounced.

“Phones work two ways, you know,” she sniffled, sounding genuinely distressed. Then again, his mom was the person who’d taught him how to make crocodile tears convincing at the tender age of six. “A mother shouldn’t have to find out about the new woman in her son’s life from the papers. Why wouldn’t you tell me about her, Mike? She’s lovely. And so successful...”

There it was. Leave it to her to come out of the woodwork only after paparazzi shots of him and Ginny out at the San Diego Zoo went viral. 

Good old mom. 

She’d gone on to congratulate him, in a mostly roundabout way—plausible deniability after all—about his future score, probing at his methods and testing for weak spots or whether there was any chance he’d let her in on it.

He got so turned around that he ended the conversation without denying, emphatically, everything. For Jackie, that’d been as good as a confirmation.)

Mike can’t blame her— Well, he can and he _does_ , but Jackie Lawson is and always has been a two-bit con artist. She doesn’t have the patience for long games, always opting for the quick pay day, even when the risks are greater. After 36 years, Mike’s finally learned not to expect more of her. That ship has long since sailed. The scent of the biggest payoff she’d ever see, even if it isn’t strictly real, was bound to draw her out. 

Which is why he still hasn’t corrected the confusion. Why he hasn’t told her that he’s just in love, or something dangerously close to it. And why he is going to send his mom some money from this nonexistent con. 

He’s got some savings built up. A few more big commissions and he can offer Jackie Lawson a pay day. One that will maybe convince her to give up on the ever-elusive big score and go into retirement. Or whatever it is that second-rate grifters do in their twilight years. 

If it also keeps her from showing up in San Diego herself and detonating his entire life, then all the better. 

Most importantly, it shields Ginny from all of this bullshit. It gives Mike room to tell her about his childhood and his mom and everything that goes with them on his own terms. Hopefully, he could preserve the fragile, perfect bubble insulating the honeymoon stage of his relationship with Ginny.

With all the time Ginny’s been spending at the Omni, her steadily disappearing possessions from his apartment, and the way she’s been texting him less and less, though, maybe the bubble’s already popped.

 

* * *

When he shuffles into his quiet apartment after a long day at the dealership—managed to upsell some bored, young finance guy on a Maserati that he’d probably end up totaling within three months. Good for his future commission cuts if not that beautiful piece of machinery—Mike lets himself hope for a moment that Ginny will be there, waiting for him. 

He can practically see her, sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair piled on top of her head and yelling at the TV. Whether it’s because of NC State’s poor performance or clueless Jeopardy! contestants is always up for debate, but the smile she’d give him isn’t. Wide and bright and quick, it’s enough to make Mike melt, no matter how awful his work day went. 

God, he loves that smile.

All that waits for him on the couch, though, are a pile of bills and the hoodie she’d forgotten when they had dinner together four nights ago. 

Idly, he picks it up and inhales the lingering scent of Ginny. It’d probably be embarrassing if anyone saw him do it, but Mike might actually be beyond caring. 

She’d shown up at his door, looking as fresh-faced and energetic as ever in spite of the long workout he knew she’d just completed—couldn’t neglect her legs or core, even with a bum arm. And she didn’t come alone. A bag from the burger place in Encinitas he’d shown her hung by her side. Before he could ask how she’d gotten them—her appointment to take her license exam was still a few weeks away—she’d given him a lopsided smile and admitted to asking a clubby to go pick them up for her. 

Mike shook his head, rolling his eyes, but still reeled Ginny into his side so he could revel in the feel of her against him. Slumping, she leaned most of her weight on him, the only indication she gave of how worn out she was. Well, he’d gladly bear that weight for her. As long as Ginny let him. She’d sighed and held him as tightly as he did her.

It’d been a quiet night, the two of them settling on the couch to watch basketball and eat their burgers. She was quiet, but Mike mostly thought that was because she didn’t have much of an opinion on the Lakers-Wolves game he’d put on. He asked a few questions about her PT and she shrugged them off, not that he could blame her. Mike had to imagine pretty much everyone in her life wanted to talk about her PT: how it was going, did she feel stronger, when could she start throwing again. If Ginny needed him to be the one person who didn’t, he would gladly be that for her. 

So, he let his arm drop around her shoulder and let her lean against his side and just relax. 

When she eventually rose to go, Mike didn’t argue, much as he wanted her back in his bed. He hadn’t been sleeping well and wanted to believe having her with him would help. At the very least, when he woke in the middle of the night, he’d be able curl around her. Instead, he simply followed her to the door, pressed a goodnight kiss to her full lips, and told her to sleep well. She’d pulled back and searched his face for a long moment before turning and walking away, out of sight.

That was four days ago, though.

Now, Mike is reduced to burying his face in his girlfriend’s sweatshirt and pretending it’s even close to actually having her here. 

With a sigh, Mike looks around the dead apartment and tries to muster up any kind of desire to make dinner or do some of the dishes piling up in the sink.

Instead, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hopes that Ginny hasn’t already gone to bed. 

As the line rings, he shrugs out of his jacket and loosens his tie, sitting on the end of his bed to unlace his shoes. He stops all that, though, flopping back on the mattress when the ringing stops and Ginny’s familiar, low rasp comes in. 

“Hello?”

“Fuck, Gin,” he sighs down the line without preamble. Laying in bed isn’t the same without her curled beside him, without the smell of her shampoo drifting into his nose as she tucks her head against his shoulder. “I miss you.”

She hums and Mike has a visceral memory of her making that same sound and how it vibrated through her lips, straight into him. 

(That she’d had those lips wrapped around his dick at the time doesn’t make him ache for her any _more_ , but that’s just because Mike doesn’t think it’s physically possible.

God, how deep in this thing is he?)

“You sure you don’t wanna come stay over tonight?” he offers weakly, already knowing her response.

“You know I’ve got an early appointment with the team physicians.”

“I do,” Mike allows. “Still wish you were here with me.”

“Well, I’m not, old man,” Ginny teases. If there’s something a little off in her delivery, he figures it’s just how tired she must be. “Deal with it.”

He chuckles. “Maybe if I had more to keep me company than this rank sweatshirt of yours, I could handle it better.”

Mike definitely expects her to laugh it off and ask about her sweatshirt. How the woman manages to keep her closet full of lycra and spandex-based workout clothes straight is a mystery, but Ginny’s got a an encyclopedic knowledge of each and every one. He’s sure she’s been going mad trying to figure out where this one got to.

Instead, there’s a long pause. He can practically hear her thinking.

“Like what?” she finally asks, slow and hesitant. “You want a picture?”

(If Mike were feeling less lonely, less turned on by the mere thought of Ginny arranging herself for an impromptu photoshoot, he would probably remember the hack and the selfies and the scramble and circus surrounding them. He’d probably hear the edge in her voice, the slight tremble of suspicion and anxiety. As it is, all he can think about is how hard he is at the mere suggestion of Ginny sprawled out on the pristine white sheets in her hotel room, snapping a picture just for him.)

He groans and doesn’t resist palming himself through his slacks. 

“There’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna say no to that, Gin.”

“How did I know?” Ginny laughs, but it’s not the bright, hoarse thing he’s used to. There’s definitely something off-key in it, more resigned than amused. 

Mike frowns and stops groping himself. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies, quick and much closer to her usual tone. “Just tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Oh. Yeah, all right,” he says, more than a little disappointed, and not just because it would be only him and his hand tonight. If Ginny doesn’t want to tell him what’s wrong, though, he can be patient, wait her out. Maybe she needs to figure it out on her own before she opens up. “Talk to you later?”

She hums again, murmurs a soft “Good night,” and the line goes dead. 

 

* * *

When he comes home from work the following day, the last of Ginny’s things are gone, odd little voids that makes the apartment feel emptier than it is. He trails through the space, taking in the dust ring from Ginny’s bottle of lotion on the coffee table and the absence of her spare running shoes in the closet. When he gets to his bedroom, a heavy sense of foreboding pooling in his gut, the nightstand where he’d left her sweatshirt (after falling asleep with his nose pressed in its folds) is empty, a short note left in its place.

 _Mike_ , 

_There’s no other way to say this. I think it would be better if we don’t see each other any more._

_Please don’t try to contact me._

He reads it, over and over again, but the words never once rearrange themselves into anything less gut-wrenching. 

Automatically, he reaches for his phone, Ginny’s contact information appearing on the screen in spite of her last request. 

The line rings. Once.

“The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please leave a message after the tone.”

He doesn’t bother, instead sinking to the bed, a mirror of the position he was in last night, talking to Ginny on the phone. Today, though, his head sinks to his hands, elbows propped on his knees, and there’s really only one thing to say.

“Fuck.” 

Fuck is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. So, I'm aware that it's been forever and a half and this is pretty short. Honestly, it would've been even shorter, but guilt is a hell of a motivator. 
> 
> I'm still not sold on this chapter, particularly the first section, but it's been so long since i updated this. I guess, don't be surprised if I come back in and overhaul this chunk sometime in the future?
> 
> Anyway, sorry to everyone who was hoping that there would be no jumping to conclusions. As I always say: end miscommunication as a plot device except for when it's convenient.
> 
> Let me know what you thought, and I will do my best to have a quicker turnaround on the next chapter!


End file.
